


The Maiden and the Dog

by prettybadmagic



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Holding Hands, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2020-12-09 07:00:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 23
Words: 95,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20990741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettybadmagic/pseuds/prettybadmagic
Summary: Bran is king, Sansa is sure.She flees the Vale and washes up on the shore of the Quiet Isle, where she discovers someone she never expected to see again. When Sansa asks Sandor to take her to her kin, he accepts.From there, they enter the landscape of a changed kingdom, a more just kingdom, or so they say. But what can bind a swordsman to a princess for any length of time? As Sandor and Sansa navigate the guiles of newfangled courts, shadows of their past follow close behind and threaten their fledgling intimacy.This is the tale of the maiden and the dog, and their shared journey home.*This bad boy is pretty much on hiatus, sadly, while I work on other projects and just generally space out*





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy, 
> 
> This story begins after a theoretical end to ASoIaF, wherein Bran takes the throne. It's more or less my version of how Sansa and Sandor would (somewhat realistically, maybe) fall for one another. I'm trying to stay true to the spirit of ASoIaF as much as possible, so I'm picking up where A Feast for Crows/A Dance with Dragons leave off, and starting around year 302 AC. I haven't seen much of the TV show. 
> 
> This if my first story, so I'm writing some pretty classic pretty virgin Sansa and sad boy Sandor, which chef's kiss, I absolutely can't get enough of. I wanted to give them a happy ending. 
> 
> This is also a Slow Burn™️. I could make it go faster, but I'm sure as hell not. I'm trying to zero in on all the excruciating details of falling in love. It's probably more of a ferment, honestly, and at the end your heart will have turned to sourdough. It's something simple (swordsman + princess = true love) but with time it becomes a provocative, mouthwatering, otherwordly creation. 
> 
> So...yeah. Buckle up. 
> 
> As a general warning, there will be violence in a similar vein to ASoIaF. Implicit and explicit sexual violence, suicidal ideation, and general bloodshed. 
> 
> I've got a lot drafted and I try to add one chapter per week, depending on how efficiently I can write/edit/live my life in the meantime. If you want more in depth updates and SanSan drabble follow me on Twitter @_prettybadmagic
> 
> Enjoy!

###  Petyr 

Petyr sat at his desk, hastily scribbling a letter. His penmanship was shakier than usual, his smooth lines reduced to errant scratches, and his breath came shallow. He hadn't enjoyed a steady breath since--

A knock sounded at the door: two short ones, then a longer one. The door opened and closed. 

"Corbray," Petyr greeted without sparing his guest a single glance. "You better have good news." 

“My lord, we’ve heard from the clansmen. I returned not a half hour ago and came straight to you.” 

Petyr released the paltry air from his lungs and set down his quill. His eyes peeled upward. Corbray certainly looked fresh from the wild with matted, stringy hair and a generous layer of dirt on his clothes, but Petyr wasn't convinced. 

“Which clan?” He demanded. 

“The Howlers, my lord. Had to pay them off something fierce we did. But she’s gone. Dead. Taken by a direwolf just outside the Bloody Gate.” 

“And the bastard?” 

“The same fate.” 

Petyr's eyes narrowed, and he ran his tongue along his top row of teeth. Corbray's words rang true enough, but loose ends would be Petyr's undoing. He had been reckless, utterly reckless, to leave the girl alone. To let her escape. If she were to survive and tell her tale,  _ his  _ tale…. 

No. It couldn't happen. 

“If the Howlers didn’t finish her off," Petyr began, his words sharp enough to draw blood. "How can we be certain? Where are the bodies?” 

Corbray shifted his weight from side to side, cleared the fear from his throat. “I expect the wolves have picked their bones clean and left them to sink the mudflats, my lord. I searched all over Saltpans, questioned the villagers, and no one knew a thing of two maids riding down from the Vale. It’s finished.” 

“Very well,” Petyr conceded. “Is that all?”

“No, my lord,” Corbray said as he approached Petyr's desk. “The leader--he gave me this. Said it belonged to one of the girls.” 

The knight pulled a dingy white bundle of wool from behind his back, then dumped it onto the Petyr's meticulously arranged stationary, sending scraps of paper swirling into the air like ivory snowflakes. 

“What is that supposed to be?” Petyr queried through tight teeth. Few things annoyed him more than having his paperwork disturbed, especially by some massive, unwashed blanket. 

“Don’t know. You deal with it. Now where’s my reward?” 

Petyr scoffed. Corbray, though loyal, was rather exacting. “I’ll send someone to you tomorrow night. Wash up. You reek.” 

“Make it the little blond one, if you’d be so kind. He doesn’t cry.” Corbray flashed a toothy grin, bowed, and exited the solar without another word. 

Petyr took up his quill, but it didn't land on the parchment. 

He didn't care if the girl was dead, he thought, lying to himself. She was nothing, and if wasn't nothing, she was only the smallest part of his plan. He didn't need her. 

Still, the puppetry of ruling the Vale had become quite taxing. Money and secrets had bought his position as Lord Protector, and his connections across the Narrow Sea would earn him something more, but his schemes perched as precariously as the Eyrie. 

If one letter fell out of place. If one puerile maiden slipped back into society. 

It couldn't happen. 

Petyr couldn't delay his journey to King's Landing any longer. Summons to bed the knee had been sent with increasing regularity over the course of the year. Petyr had hoped to arrive triumphantly with his sweet dove at his side, but he would have to make do and visit the crippled king before whispers of his affairs became shouts. 

He would visit the king, return to the Vale, and all would be well. 

Petyr repeated this specious incantation to himself over and over, but it didn't cool the acid in his veins. His heart corroded one beat at a time. 

He had loved her. 

Had she not loved him back? 

###  Sansa 

Sansa woke face down in a wet bed, her eyes open to nothing but dark mud. She tried to swallow air, but water clogged her throat and lungs, so she heaved instead. Murky liquid spilled from her lips and quickly disappeared into the ground below. Sansa gasped to reclaim breath. 

She pressed her quivering palm into the soft earth and used all her might to shift onto her side. Bright fire bloomed in her wrist and she winced, then drew into herself. 

Where was she? 

She was lost. She was alone. 

"Mya…" she breathed, but there was no one. A dense, lonely fog shrouded the shore. The tide roared in Sansa's ears. 

Warm tears mingled with the icy brine on her milk white skin. Sansa shivered, and whimpered, and cried for Mya, but it was no use. Water and blood alike soaked her woolen travel dress. It was her blood, Sansa knew. Crimson painted her leg and seeped into the sand like a dark storm cloud, growing larger with each passing moment. 

Sansa would die here, wherever it was she had gotten lost. A sinister lightness filled her head, a pretend warmth swathed her skin, and she let the world go dark. 

\--

When Sansa woke next, she was no longer in the water. She was dry. She was warm. She blinked away the sleep from her heavy eyes and breathed.

Wool blankets and furs covered her weary limbs. A fire crackled in the hearth. Round stone walls kept in the heat. She was in a hovel, in a straw bed, alive. Sansa curled her fingers and toes to test their existence, and succeeded. She bent her wrists and winced. 

Her right wrist was bandaged and tender to touch. What had happened? 

Sansa saw only darkness. 

She pushed herself up to sitting with her stronger arm, then peeled away layers of fur. She no longer wore her brown travel dress—someone had replaced it with a dingier, roughspun gown, utterly shapeless and dreadfully ugly. Sansa pulled up its worn hem and frowned. Another bandage encased her entire left thigh, stained with half moon of penny-sized splotches. 

Blood. 

Sansa's head rolled on her neck, and she managed to fold over the side of her bed just as sick rushed from her stomach out onto the earthen floor. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and left it there to stifle impending sobs. 

Where was she? How long had she been here? 

Sansa began to recount her recent memories. 

The war had ended. 

Bran was king, she was sure. 

She had lived in the Vale. Littlefinger took her there, saved her from the Lannisters, but she left him. She remembered the descent through the Mountains of the Moon with Mya as her guide. She remembered the Bloody Gate and all its battlements, tall and bleak, carved from the cliffs themselves. 

Then there was blood. 

But why had she left the safety of the Vale? Sansa didn't want to be weak and bruised amidst strangers. She wanted to be home. 

Metal scraped against metal, then the door swung open, flooding the room with bright winter air. A man appeared in the entryway. He wore a brown robe and carried a well-laden tray. Sansa startled, gathering her furs back up to her chin and pressing herself against the wall. She tried to open her mouth to yell for help or to simply sob, but her jaw shook too ferociously to let words pass. 

The man made a noise of surprise, but a length of wool over his mouth muffled it. His eyes went from Sansa to the pile of vomit, then back to Sansa. She swallowed back her fear. 

He didn't want to hurt her. He placed the tray at the edge of her straw pallet, bowed until his forehead all but reached the floor, and left. Sansa waited one long minute until the sound of hurried footsteps faded into the distance. 

Then, the earthy scent of wheat filled the air. Sansa's eyes went wide. The stranger had left fresh bread, butter, and a cup of wine. Sansa pulled the tray onto her lap and claimed the bread. She held it her palms, breathed in its warmth, and said a mute prayer to the Gods before taking a bite. 

Wherever she was, they were inclined to feed her.

Sansa had barely a minute more to savor her food before the door swung open a second time, this time hitting the wall with a resounding crack. Mya stepped inside, an unfaltering grin pinned to her cheeks. 

"Alayne, you're awake!" She exclaimed.

Mya grabbed a low wooden chair and took up a seat at Sansa's side. She too wore a brown robe, but her face was uncovered, and she had pulled her cowl down to reveal her short mop of dark brown hair. She glanced at the puddle of sick, but ignored it, instead grabbing Sansa’s hand and laying bright eyes on her. 

"Mya…" Sansa whispered, her voice an untried tool. "Mya, you're alive. I'm so glad. What—what happened to us? Where are—"

"You won't believe it," Mya cut in. "The wolves saved us. The wolves came after the clansmen attacked. I think they were Howlers." 

"Clansmen?" Sansa echoed. 

"Yes, they must have been. They were all painted and wore wolfskins. They screamed something awful instead of any familiar tongue. We were as good as dead when they found us. I think they could smell us." 

"But we survived?" Sansa asked, still unsure of her own existence. 

"Oh, yes." Mya brightened even more and gave Sansa's hand a hearty squeeze. "The Howlers had us surrounded; they had all these sharpened clubs stuck with jagged teeth. I could barely see, it was just barely dawn, you see. They grunted and yelped, went for the mules first, then scattered all our things. And then," Mya exhaled, continued, "and then the wolves came. There was a she wolf and dozens of wolflings. She ripped the throat of the leader and at least a few others, and the pack chased away the rest. I must have fallen, next thing I remember is being half-awake and wet, and then I was here." Mya assessed the room and nodded to herself with apparent pride. 

"Where are we? The man—he brought me food, and my wounds—"

"Oh Alayne, you won't hardly believe our luck. The wolves carried us across the river. We're on the Quiet Isle." When Sansa offered only a blank stare, Mya asked, "You know the Quiet Isle?" 

Sansa thought for moment, pushing through the dense clouds in her mind. Why was it so dark? 

Then it dawned on her. 

"The septry is here. For the mute brothers." 

"The brothers take a vow of silence but they still have their tongues," Mya corrected. "The only one who can talk is the Elder Brother, and he's quite preoccupied. I've been waiting for you to wake so I could hear my own voice. It's been days." 

"Days?" 

"Yes, a quarter moon's turn since the ambush. No matter. The brothers will let us stay as long as we like, and then we can be on our way north, just as you wanted." 

"Oh," Sansa breathed. She suddenly came into her body; each bruise and scrape prickled, and her muscles sagged into the straw beneath her as though wet sand filled her skin. She didn’t want this; she wanted to sleep in a pristine featherbed. "But why—why did we want to leave in the first place?" 

"Alayne," Mya's grin wilted to a straight line and concern wove into her brow. "You don't remember?" 

Sansa shook her head. 

"It was Littlefinger—he wouldn't let you leave. You were through being treated as a bastard. We were going to make our own way in the new kingdom. The wolf king reigns now. He's a just king, they say." 

Sansa made a weak sigh of acknowledgement, but a dull ache crept into the back of her head and lingered. It felt as though a massive, invisible hand held her skull between two fingers and pinched. Sansa tried to blink the pain away to no avail. 

"Are you alright m'lady?" 

"I'm alright," Sansa said in a lame whisper. "I think...I think I need sleep." 

"Of course. Well, if you need anything, just tell the brothers. I'll come back and visit soon anyway. 'Til then." Mya eased into a bow, then slipped from the room without another word. 

Sansa sat. She looked at the tray on her lap but didn't lift a finger. The pain in her head made dark shapes dance in her version. They filled the room and chanted a soundless song. A dark song. 

Sansa couldn't remember. 

She remembered walking the halls of Gates of the Moon, soft steps in blue silk slippers, and passing by the council chamber.  _ The dragon queen's dead,  _ she overheard.  _ The crippled king reigns.  _ She remembered talking to Yohn, who was always so gentle, at least to her. Yohn told her Rickon lived to rule Winterfell. 

Winterfell. 

Sansa missed Winterfell. She longed to go home. Sansa remembered the abject longing, cold nights in empty chambers. Loneliness. The type of loneliness that sinks into one's bones, to be carried every hour of the day and deeper into the night. 

But she had Mya, and Mya had agreed to accompany her. They had fled together. 

Something was missing, though, and Sansa couldn't see past the shadows. Why wouldn't Littlefinger take her to her kin? If the war was won, Sansa had no need for disguise. She was safe. She could live as herself. 

Right? 

Sansa's stomach turned, so she eased the food from her lap and sunk low under the covers. A distinct stench of rotten fruit drifted in the air and clung to Sansa's nose, even when she buried her face in wool. She tried to breathe, but her chest hurt. 

Something had gone wrong. 

And she couldn't remember. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor thinks of maidens and revenge.
> 
> Chapter track: Orville Peck - Hope to Die

### Sandor 

Sandor began his day as he always did: he rose from his bed, dressed in his robes, and attended morning prayer. He avoided the eyes of his fellows, as he always did. He stayed silent, as was expected. 

It had been twenty nine moons. Twenty nine moons as a holy gelding. 

He was glad to be alive, maybe. He was glad the little wolfling spared him and that the Elder Brother nursed him back to health. The cold, damp air that filled his lungs day after day was a blessing from the Gods. The dull ache in his burns that accompanied his breath served as another reminder. 

Sandor wasn't dead. 

Not yet. 

After morning prayer, Sandor passed through the modest grounds of the sept. A collection of plain buildings of stone and timber dotted the eternally mist-laden hills. It was just outside the library where he caught the hurried whispers of two proctors. _ Girls, _ he heard them say, _ maids from the Vale. Wolves saved them, can you believe? _

Sandor didn't linger. He knew of the recently arrived guests, all the brothers did. Word of feminine company spreads fast among so many men, even the wordless. They didn't see many women in this misty corner of the kingdom, though some of the brothers had been lucky enough to tend to the ladies' wounds. To bring their food, share their sweet air. 

Sandor didn't care, or at least that's what he told himself. It had been thirty moons since he'd known a woman's touch, and he could last thirty more. Besides, he knew of no one from the Vale. It was none of his business. 

So he began his morning walk along the muddy banks of the isle. He passed the fishponds and wandered further from the gentle thrum of brothers about their chores, into the white fog beyond. Sandor often missed bloodshed, steel on steel, the sting of sweat on his molten flesh and the voracious ache in his limbs after battle, but he didn't miss people. He liked the quiet. He could pass an entire lifetime without saying another word. 

Sandor walked. His boots sunk into mud then resurfaced, over and over again. His heart beat in time to his steps. He passed his favorite pocket of the isle, a great black rock that shot up from the grassy knolls like a godsmade dagger and cast shadow even under the greyest sky. It was just beyond this landmark that something unfamiliar glimmered in the sand. 

Gold, Sandor was certain, and something else, something green. Some type of moss. 

Sandor strode to the shore, where briny water lapsed at the unsheathed treasure. He stooped to recover the gilded coins and dredge up the green bundle. It was fabric, rich emerald velvet. Sandor wrung out a small cascade of water, then unfurled the cloth to is full length. 

A lady's gown. Thin golden thread decorated the bodice and swirled down the open sleeves. It was lovely, and the feel of the soft velvet on Sandor's fingertips made his blood cold. Where had the gown been? Whose slender frame had donned such finery? 

The garment would be missed, surely, but it wasn't Sandor's business. 

He would take it to the vault, where the brothers stored any number of washed up treasures. Swords, armor, jewels, soggy clothing all idled in the dank hillside cavern, and they would remain there until the end of the time. 

Sandor trudged back along the bank, and the cold fabric prickled under the brown wool of his robe, made him all too aware of the heat in his veins. He had missed the sight of ladies in their frivolous dresses. He missed the smell of perfume on their skin, bottled flowers brought to life in even the coldest winter by the warmth of their pulse. 

The only woman he had seen in years was that goddamned maid of Tarth. She was after him, he learned through parsed out whispers. Thought he had the girl. The other wolfling. 

He wasn't nearly so lucky. 

Sandor reached the foot of the hill and went up the crude steps, a zigzagged arrangement of raw planks in mud. The ascent made his breath heavy and quick, but he persevered, despite the shadow of pain in his left leg. A stout breeze forced the cowl from his face, and Sandor readjusted the cloth to lay flush against his skin, leaving only his eyes open to the elements. 

He hid his disfigurement here on the isle, not that it mattered. The brothers knew of his past. Still, days went by, hells, sometimes entire quarter moons, where Sandor ignored the persistent heat in his scars, but he couldn't go long without thinking of Gregor. 

Sandor wanted to kill Gregor, always. 

He wanted to unburden his shit brother of every drop of black blood that swam in his veins, and no amount of time spent bent-kneed in a sept would change that. There was only one way that Sandor would cool his burns—revenge—but he hadn't had that luck, either. 

Sandor continued his march up the hill. He rounded a sharp, blind corner and landed face to face with Elder Brother. 

"Oh—" the holy man startled. "Brother Clegane." He found footing and swept his eyes over Sandor. They settled on the gown. "Has something washed ashore?" 

He reached out a robe-sheathed arm, and Sandor surrendered the dress without a word. The Elder Brother loosed the velvet and studied the garment, hemming and puffing all the while. He was an ugly man, and though his body had once been strong, his robes covered all but his red-spotted skin and swollen nose. He was better off in the company of the Gods. 

After another few minutes, the Elder Brother rolled up the fabric, stuffed it under his arm, and charged, "I'll be keeping this gown, Brother Clegane. I'm inclined to believe this belongs to one of our recently arrived guests.” 

Sandor cocked a brow in response. 

"Yes, yes, it is true. We have two visitors, maidens from the Vale. One with rough hands, and the other…" he spared a glance to the sodden jewel at his side. "Well, her hands are untried, to say the least. She's sure to be thrilled by your discovery." 

A blunt ache turned Sandor's stomach, like a nest of worms come to life. To thrill a maiden would be an honor indeed, not that he wished to impose himself upon the visitors. They would be healed soon enough. They would disappear, no more tangible than ghosts. 

"Anyway," the Elder Brother cut in. "I must be going. Please do bring any other...feminine articles to me, and if you see our guests roaming about, exercise the keen restraint of the Crone." After issuing an insufferably humble look, the holy man fell into bow. "May the Seven bless you, brother." 

With that, he loped past Sandor, down the hill and into the pervasive mist. The leader of the septry was not a graceful man, not very pretty, and not even very bright, but he was sincere. His bald honesty made him weak, but Sandor couldn't fault him. He meant well. 

Sandor loitered on the hillside. The fog parted ever so slightly to reveal the Elder Brother below in the distance, hastening to the ladies' cottages, a simple row of round hovels. 

Maidens on the isle. 

Better yet, a maid with soft hands on the isle. An untimely jut of blood roamed below Sandor’s belt—who were the noble ladies of the Vale? 

Sandor would never remember. He would be content to never again step foot in a castle, suffer countless introductions and fulsome pleasantries. He wasn't a creature of court. 

No, what Sandor wanted more than anything was his keep. Its image endured his memory: the rocky pass, the low stone wall bright with moss, and the tower house, a man-made mountain. The ceilings were high enough that Sandor's head never met a single oaken beam. The rooms wide enough for troves of furniture carved by his father and grandfather before him. And the view from the top was the stuff of the Gods. Miles of pristine evergreen forest, crystal clear rivers, and the widest sky. 

When Sandor pictured his keep, he pictured his family, but before every accident. He saw his mother plucking bright red poppies and singing, his father shepherding his stubborn trip of goats. And Margaery, she would chase butterflies, or moths, or crickets. Anything that moved she would follow, an eternal smile on her sweet face. 

There was no Gregor in Sandor's dreams, but it didn't matter. Sandor would never see the keep again, and if he did, he would come alone. 

Sandor shook away the heat on his face and started back down the steps. He should go to the sept. It wasn't quite time for his afternoon duties, but it was as good a place as any to idle, so Sandor veered left at the bottom of the hill, then passed through the orchards and back into the stir of the septry grounds. 

The sept itself was a modest wooden building that withstood the harsh eastern wind. It wasn't much—rickety timber with mismatched leaden windows—but loving hands had clearly tended to it for many years. Sandor swallowed his last cold breath and pushed through the wide wooden doors. 

The stench of cloves always hit Sandor first, then the warmth of the central hearth. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he began to pace. Each corner housed a different aspect of the Seven, true to scale stone likenesses. Their features were worn with time, but that made them more believable, at least to Sandor. 

They leered at him, always. The Mother lamented her great sacrifice. The Father cursed his wicked son. The Crone knew too much, and Sandor too little. 

He despised the Gods. He wasn't supposed to be a holy man, but he fell into this lot all the same. He bore it as best he could. 

Sandor passed the statue of the Stranger. This God didn't have a eyes to stare or disappointment roosted in its brow. A sweeping hood of stone covered its unknowable form, save for the skull perched in its bony hands. 

Of all the Gods, Sandor understood the Stranger the most, because there was so little to understand. It was all black, and death, and that immaculate, bitter dark that fills every gap with unfeeling murk. 

Sandor had so many gaps—cracks in his charred flesh, a void in his heart that ached with nothing more solid than smoke. He had deposited a shameful number of candles at the foot of the Stranger, whispered pitiful prayers to the empty sockets of its skull, and for what? 

Sandor exhaled, hard enough to clear his head, but not loud enough to draw unwanted attention. He wouldn't stop at the Stranger today. 

Instead, he continued to the next corner, the Warrior, and then on to the Smith, but those men wouldn't hear his prayers either. Sandor didn't even have any prayers to offer, not today, when hollow pain teased his gut and relentless flame cradled his face.

But then he saw her. 

The Maiden. 

She smiled at him, a smooth, stone smile. A little bird rested on her outstretched palm, and other little birds gathered at her skirts. There was beauty—a sliver of light on the bleakest of nights. Sandor brought shaky fingertips to the fair maiden's cheek, but the cold stone shocked him and rippled across his skin. He dropped to his knees. 

She was there then, not _ the _ Maiden, _ his _maiden, his little bird. Unbidden water blurred Sandor's vision, but he was certain. A tide of red hair flowed to her hips. Pure blue eyes pierced him. She had that particular bow atop her soft pink lips, a gentle weapon, poised to unleash the cruelest, most delicate melodies and shatter his bones. 

Sandor would be sick. He clutched his stomach and heaved, but released only a broken gasp. He tried to find air, but it was too thick with spice, too heavy to swallow. Tears fell. The salt eased into the open crimson cracks of his burns and stoked the flame. 

"Little bird," he whispered, his voice rough and wet. "Little bird, forgive me." 

The vision came close. She reached a gracile hand and laid her touch on Sandor's disfigured cheek. She was quiet, but she didn't need words, her blue eyes, her gentle caress flooded him with cold reprieve. 

She heard his prayer. 

Sandor reached out to take her hand, to take her hip or her hair, to know her and feel her, but her form turned to smoke at his touch. 

She was gone. She took the cold with her. 

Sandor lowered a tight fist to the ground and bit back every sob and scream that fought to breach his lips. The gaps reopened, blackness crept in. Vile mites swarmed in his gut. He would never know the end of flame. Nothing would ever stitch together his tattered existence. 

His world was dark and broken. He borrowed his time with his little bird from the Stranger itself, a wicked ploy to give Sandor a taste of what he should have never known—beauty, light, kindness, and longing. 

No. 

The Stranger had given him a gift. The dark God had shown Sandor that beauty was fickle, light ephemeral, kindness weak, and longing, longing was a foul plague. He had been spared a terrible affliction. A false joy. Even the prettiest of maidens couldn't banish the rancor, no matter the softness of their skin or shine in their hair. 

Sandor would remain a wanton servant of the Stranger for the rest of his sorry life. 

He would pick up his own pieces. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's strength grows. 
> 
> Chapter track: LAV - From me, the moon

###  Sansa 

Her dream that night was set to the tune of the False and the Fair. Visions of the Eyrie danced before her. Littlefinger’s soft hand on her cheek, firmer fingers at her waist, a snowy kiss.  _ Sweet dove _ , he whispered gently in her ear. 

_ Hey-nonny, hey-nonny, hey-nonny-hey _

The air was cold like mint and bright white. Everything was white in the Vale, an endless mirror of snow, both inside and outside the castle walls. Sweetrobin cried. Sweetrobin smiled. He clutched at her breast. He laid wet lips on her skin. 

_ Hey-nonny, hey-nonny, hey-nonny-hey _

Aunt Lysa, furious. Sansa’s feet dangled through the moon door, tendrils of breeze beckoned her down, and part of her wanted to be taken. Then there was Littlefinger, but he was dressed as the singer. Or perhaps Marillion was dressed at Littlefinger. He held Aunt Lysa close, dropped her down the white void. 

_ Hey-nonny, hey-nonny, hey-nonny-hey _

Littlefinger pulled her to safety. The court of the Vale circled and sang their song louder, drew closer, so close Sansa could feel the warm shadows of breath lapse at her skin.  _ I only loved one woman,  _ Littlefinger said into her mouth. His words were black. 

Sansa’s eyes flew open. She gripped the tangle of wool beneath her fingers and chased her stolen breath. Fine beads of sweat decorated her temples, ambled down her flushed cheeks. 

She was safe. She was at the Quiet Isle. 

It was morning again. Crows cawed in the distance, and sunlight pried between the gaps in the wooden door. Someone had started her fire and left her a bowl of porridge. Sansa breathed in the sweet scent of honey and cinnamon, tinged with subtle wisps of smoke. She couldn’t recall how long she’d slept. 

Sansa ran her fingers across her wet brow and frowned at the sensation of salt and grime on her skin. The brothers had surely washed her when they saved her, soaked the mud from her hair, but she hadn’t bathed since her untimely plunge in the river. 

She hadn’t left her bed, either. It was warm under the covers. The furs disguised all her ugly scrapes and bruises, and Sansa could pretend they simply didn’t exist, until they smarted all the same. The wolf’s bite hurt the most. The ghost of her fangs persisted deep in her flesh, sharp as they day they were made. 

Still, what Sansa wanted more than anything was to rinse her flushed skin with cool water. A rickety washstand stood opposite the bed with a clay bowl and pitcher placed on top. The brothers had dutifully filled the pitcher each morning. Would it not be impolite to let their hard work go to waste? 

Sansa eased the thick furs and wool blankets from her lap, and gooseprickles dotted the exposed skin on her legs. She shivered as she dropped her feet to the soft dirt floor. She needed only take two steps, and she would reach the basin, but as soon as she rested her weight on her feet, her knees buckled. 

She collapsed into a heap, and the force of her fall sent pain rippling through her bones. She moaned. No one would hear. No one could help her. 

Sansa grabbed the leg of the washstand. If she couldn't bring herself to the basin, she would have to bring the basin closer to herself. With one quick tug, the pitcher dropped from its perch and shattered on unforgiving ground. The spilled water turned the floor to mud. 

Sansa slammed her fist in the unwelcome puddle and sobbed. 

She must look horrible. Though she had combed her hair into two simple plaits and tied them with rags, she felt the raised crust of a scab on her scalp. Another scab ran the length of her jaw, and Sansa didn't dare count the cuts on her limbs. 

Why did Mya have to take her from the Vale? Was Littlefinger so wretched? 

Sansa thought of her dream, both sweet and sour. Littlefinger's kisses were tender and urgent, but his touch, the dark edge of his words, those left a bitter taste on her tongue. He had hurt Aunt Lysa. Or had that been the singer? 

Had he hurt her? 

She had too many scrapes and bruises to know their maker. She had fallen and slept so often that bright memory went to ash in her mind. All Sansa knew was her hurt and her ugliness. Her gowns were gone. She had nothing but drab wool and rags to adorn herself. 

She would rather be back in the Gates of the Moon, no matter how close Littlefinger came, or how tightly he clutched her wrists. He said he would take her to her family, but had he lied? 

Sansa could take herself. As Mya said, they would make their own way. Sansa could be home in Winterfell in less than a moon, shielded by warm walls and the comfort of kin. 

But she was still broken. 

Sansa wallowed in her muck for many long minutes before the door creaked open. 

"My lady?" A cautious voice rang out. A man. None of the brothers had spoken to her yet. "My lady, are you there?" The brother called again, then an ugly face peeked out from around the door. When his eyes landed on Sansa they widened with surprise. "Oh, dear girl, what's happened?" 

The man hastened to Sansa's side and hoisted her up by the waist before she could get out a single word. A strong arm guided her back to bed, and Sansa slipped under the covers. She looked at the man and blinked. Unlike the other brothers, no cowl shrouded his face. A large red nose protruded from his pocked skin, but he wore it with a smile. 

"Forgive me, my lady, I've forgotten my manners. I'm the Elder Brother, the leader of this humble corner of the kingdom. I apologize for the intrusion. Are you well?" 

"I would hope to be better soon," was all she could think to say. She forbid herself to look down at her bandaged wrist or the hidden bandages at her thigh. Her heart simply couldn't bear it. 

"Of course, of course. Forgive me for not coming sooner, I'd heard you'd woken but yesterday evening. Have you eaten?" The Elder Brother glanced to the now cold porridge at Sansa's beside. 

She shook her head. "I haven't an appetite, Brother." 

"Ah, well do try. No better way to regain your strength than to eat well and often.” He grinned to himself, as Sansa offered nothing but a blank stare. They sat in companionable silence for another moment before the Elder Brother said, "I've come to deliver something that I believe you may have lost." 

Sansa's heart lurched—the white cloak. She missed it, dearly. 

But the holy man pulled a green bundle from his cavernous sleeves, not white. It was her emerald gown, Sansa realized. She had forgotten that she had packed it, the only dress to make the journey down the mountains. 

Sansa took up her misplaced treasure, and though damp, she pressed the velvet to her dusty skin and inhaled. Her mother had sewn it before her journey south to King's Landing, using only the finest Lorathi velvet and gilded thread. The gown was her last and only tie to the North. 

"Thank you," she whispered. 

"It's not I you should thank, another brother discovered it on the shore and wanted to make sure it found its rightful owner. You are called Alayne, if I am not mistaken?" 

Sansa's eyes flew up from her lap. "Y-yes," she stuttered. "Alayne Stone, born of the Vale." 

"If you may forgive my bold speech, that's a fine gown for fatherless child. A small fortune woven into the fabric itself. Not a common thing in the slightest." The Elder Brother fingered the swirls of the thread on the sleeves, then raised a tame brow. "How does a lady such as yourself come to own such a treasure?" 

_ Courtesy is a lady's armor,  _ Sansa reminded herself. She put tears in her eyes. 

"It was a gift, Brother. My mother traded everything she had, so that I may live a better life." She paired her lie with a gentle smile. "I hope I shall make her proud yet." 

"And tell me," the brother's voice was pliant but solemn. "What is your intended destination? It's not every day two maidens tumble from the Mountains of the Moon. A very grave journey indeed, not one to be taken lightly." 

Sansa thought for a minute, but it came to her. "I want to go west." 

That was their tale. Sansa remembered stolen moments in cold corridors. Hushed whispers.  _ I want to get out of here,  _ Mya would say.  _ You should come too. The war is over, I'm through being a bastard, and I'm sick of the snow. Let's make our own way.  _ Sansa would hem and fret, but she remembered packing a bag. She remembered later, on the rocky pass through the Bloody Gates, how Mya repeated,  _ if anyone asks, we're bastards from the Vale. We're nobody. We're going west.  _

There was so much out west, though, and Sansa knew none of it. She sighed. 

"That's all?" The Elder Brother pressed. "You simply wanted a change of scenery?" 

Sansa nodded. 

"Very well," he stood and dusted his dun robes. "Your companion, Mya, has expressed the same. I won't trespass any longer, my lady. Try to eat. Try to rest. If you feel well enough, explore the grounds, and call for me any time. I'm never far." The Elder Brother laid a rough hand over Sansa's. It was large and storied, years of sacrifice etched in fine lines. "We'll see you healed and home." 

"Thank you, kind brother," Sansa hummed. "Thank you." 

With a simple bow, the Elder Brother exited the cozy room, sealing the door with a slight click. 

Sansa released all her withheld breath—he had known, though he was kind enough to hold his tongue. Her gown was not the gown of the bastard. It was a gown of a lady. She had worn it when she was still an unblossomed girl, head full of fairy stories, ready to be swept off her feet. 

But the world was much too cruel. Princess or peasant, she bled the same. 

She couldn't wait for a prince or knight to come to her rescue. She couldn't idle in a snowbound tower while her family waited for her return. Sansa needed to save herself, and though she taken one dangerous step forward, countless steps remained. She needed to start somewhere. 

Sansa cast her blankets aside and set her feet on the ground. With her stronger hand poised on the wall, she pulled herself to standing. Her knees wobbled, her leg throbbed, but she gained her balance. She gasped from the exertion, her pulse sang in her ears, but she had done it. 

_ Yes,  _ she thought. _ I will find my way home. _

\--

The next morning Sansa had eaten half her porridge in her chair by the hearth when Mya poked her head into the cottage. 

"Alayne," she chimed as she let herself inside. "You're up. How's your leg? Are you doing much better? Oh, your gown!" 

"Oh, I—um," Sansa started. Mya fell into sitting at her feet and rested unblinking eyes on her. "I'm much better, yes. And I the gown—" she looked to her bed, where bright emerald mingled with the dull covers. "The Elder Brother returned it." 

"I brought you these, too." Mya lifted a jumble of wool. "A cloak and belt. Mittens, if you like, and new hose. They have a whole cavern full of treasure, the Elder Brother showed me. Said we could have all we want; things wash ashore and never see the light of day again. A real shame. I rescued these, though." 

Sansa took the offered garments and inspected them. Mya had discovered a noblewoman's mantle, deep sapphire wool lined in satin. "Thank you, Mya. It's beautiful." 

"Of course," Mya replied. She stared into the hearth for a minute, let out a tattered breath, then said, "I was hoping that we could put them to use and visit the septry today. If you're feeling well enough, that is." 

"Oh—" Sansa blanched. Was she ready to visit the septry? 

There would be men, so many men, with eyes eager to tear her to pieces. But they were holy men, Sansa reminded herself. They had nursed her back to health, given her shelter, shared their food. Besides, she could put her new cloak to use. 

"I'll come," she answered. "I would like to pray in the sept." 

Mya burst up and howled her excitement. She took one of Sansa's plaits and gave it a loving stroke. "Of course we'll pray, you were always so devout. But I'll show you the stables, the orchard, and the library—they have so many books—and the refectory, and the brewery, and the cannery. Oh, we have so much to see! Get dressed and we'll be on our way," she solicited before jaunting out the door. 

Sansa did as she was bid. She tied the belt at her waist, thankful for some compliment to her figure, then wrapped the mantle around her shoulders. She practiced a few curtsies and smiles, glimpsed at herself in the basin, and exited the room. 

Frigid air bit at Sansa's skin, so she drew up her hood and secured her mittens. The river roared just beyond foggy banks, and though Sansa couldn't quite see it, she knew it would be wide and mighty. Mya joined Sansa before she had too much time alone with her thoughts and offered her a curled stick. 

"For the walk. It's lumpy, to say the least." 

And so they began their trek. They wound up a muddy footpath with nothing to see but dirt, stone, and trodden yellow grass. Sansa was immediately grateful for the makeshift cane, her wounded leg was weak yet and complained of the exercise, but she pressed on. 

Mya entertained her with stories from the septry. She slipped in seamlessly amongst the brethren, even wore their robes, and spent her time roaming about the isle. She had birthed piglets the previous morning, cooked up a tincture in the afternoon, and shared supper with the brothers in the evening. The brothers had granted her access to the library, and though she couldn't read, Mya said the pictures were beautiful. Hand-painted by the brothers, most of them. She told Sansa she would learn to read, anyway. One of the brothers had already shown her some letters. 

Sansa was glad for Mya, though romping about a sty and sweating in a kitchen seemed a dismal way to spend one's time. Especially amidst the company of men. Sansa much preferred the company of ladies. She let herself dream of having ladies in waiting to attend her—how soon could she know such splendor? 

Her brother was king. She could have all she wanted. 

If she ever made it home. 

"It's not so far now," Mya beamed. They passed through an orchard, and though the harvest had long since ended, a few brothers collected frozen apples at the base of the trees. Sansa tested her smile, but it didn't matter. The men covered their faces with cloth—they could only answer with their eyes. 

After the orchard, they crossed a low stone gate and entered the septry grounds. Modest stone buildings sat scattered in the mist. Mya whispered in Sansa's ear the purpose of each one, but she kept her gaze downcast and gripped her cane tighter. 

They visited the stables. Though Sansa enjoyed riding well enough, she was never fond of the stench of manure and mildewy hay. She breathed from her mouth as Mya introduced every animal. The brothers had mostly mules, a few ponies and palfreys, and one enormous black courser. He was a beautiful creature with a mane and coat like ashen silk. 

"This one's called Driftwood," Mya explained. When Sansa reached out a hand to pat his muzzle, Mya caught her wrist. "You probably shouldn't. He's rather nasty, sadly." 

But Sansa didn't listen. She set her palm before Driftwood's nostrils and let the beast give her a cautious sniff. Then another. A few seconds passed, where Sansa looked nervously from her hand to the horse's eye and back again, but then, miraculously, the courser stuck its nose in Sansa's palm and nickered. 

Sansa giggled. Mya's mouth fell open.    


"I've never seen him do that," she bellyached. "What luck." 

Sansa stroked Driftwood's soft muzzle, then lifted on her tiptoes to deliver a kiss. "He's quite handsome, isn't he?" 

"Very handsome. A courser as strong as him has probably seen his fair share of bloodshed. A knight's horse, that is." 

Sansa hummed her agreement and said her goodbyes to Driftwood. They set out on the path to the sept under the grey afternoon sun, and Sansa thought of knights and horses all the while. She recalled the knights of the Vale. Yohn was ever so gentle to her, though standoffish with Petyr. Nestor seemed indifferent. Harrold was handsome and rude. He disappeared shortly after rejecting her hand. Pox, they said, and Sansa couldn't care less. She liked Ser Lyn the least; something about his wandering eye made her skin crawl. 

And then there was Lothor. He was loyal to Littlefinger and scarcely let Sansa out of his sight. Not a very pretty man, not even very kind. He was rather sullen and tight-lipped, but he never dared to lash out at her. 

Not all knights were terrible. None were so terrible as Joffrey's men—Meryn, Boros, Osmund. 

Sansa's stomach wound into a knot. 

_ The Hound.  _

He hadn't been a knight, though he often acted as one. He rescued her during the riot, cut down the uncomely man who tried to grab her, and carried her to safety astride his noble steed. The Hound had a black stallion, too, named Stranger.

But the Hound was long dead, slain somewhere in the riverlands. Sansa would never know his rescue again, the solace of his strong arms and pounding heart. She would never know his warmth again either, not even the vestiges of heat and smoke buried in his white cloak. 

Had he truly cared for her, or was he simply following orders? 

No one bade him to come to her chambers that night to steal a song and a kiss. He chose that for himself. He offered her freedom of his own volition, and if he offered again, would Sansa accept? Would she give her songs and kisses willingly? 

It didn't matter. He was long dead. 

Sansa traced the ghost of his kiss on her lips and sighed. Mya cupped her shoulder. "Almost there," she said. 

The sept emerged from the fog. Colorful leaden windows punctuated its simple facade and glinted in the dull winter sun, calling in worshipers with chaste elegance. A few brothers bowed as they stepped through the garden, and Sansa curtsied with just a dip of her head. Her heart pounded in her ears. 

_ They don't know me,  _ Sansa reassured herself.  _ They mean no harm. _

Sansa smoothed her fingers over figures of the Mother and Father carved into the heavy wooden doors before Mya pushed them open. Warmth and potent spice drew them inside. 

Only dim beams of sunlight pushed through the thick, colored glass, leaving the muted glow of candles to guide their steps. Lifelike stone statues of the Seven stood proud at the seven points of the sept, and Mya hastened to kneel at the foot of the Father. She didn't have a father, the poor thing. 

Not that Sansa did either, not anymore. She sighed and swallowed the thick incense of clove and myrrh that burdened the air. It made her head rather light and her eyes watery, so she blinked and tried to stay herself. 

A few brothers meandered and tended to chores, sweeping, gathering spent candles, and scrubbing wax from the floors. Another handful of brothers knelt in prayer. At her left, one brother stood perfectly still. A large fist protruded from his gaping sleeve, clenched tight, but he didn't seem to notice Sansa. She didn't stare for long. 

The aspect of the Stranger loomed just beyond the sullen brother, in the darkest corner with the fewest candles. Though Sansa didn't often feel inclined to share her prayers with the unknowable God, a cold thread pulled her across the compact room to face the shadowy statue. Her eyes rested level with the hollow pits of the skull. She tried to breathe, but she could think only of death. 

So many of her loved ones had come into the Stranger's embrace—her father, her mother, her brother, and probably her only sister, too. 

Sansa lived, but the Stranger chipped away at her spirit, one fragment of vain hope at a time. The first chip was Lady's death. Then her father's. Then came Joffrey's cruelty, the cruelty of his men and his mother. Then they married her off to the imp. 

She had almost been saved, but Sansa lost piece greatest piece of herself when she became Alayne. She  _ hated  _ being Alayne, a bastard, with nothing to offer. Not even Littlefinger would have her as bastard; he stole his kisses in shadows. He turned her into nothing. 

All Sansa had left of herself was her virtue. 

A sudden sharp pain needled deep inside Sansa, like dozens of shattered icicles, and she doubled over onto the cold stone. Her cane clattered to the floor beside her. She wept, and she tried to collect her sobs, to force them back down her throat, but they burst from between her fingers and rang out into the room. 

She heard his voice in her head.  _ Don't cry,  _ he always said.  _ It makes you ugly. No one likes an ugly bastard, now do they?  _

Littlefinger was right, of course, but she always found herself mere seconds away from tears whenever he was close. When they became too heavy to withhold, she would let them go, like now. She knew she shouldn't cry in a sept. She was sure to draw the attention of all the brothers, but she couldn't steady her breath or still the rapidfire beating of her heart. 

She was a silly, witless girl. Littlefinger had called her an empty-headed cunt. He was right about that, too. 

A strong hand dropped onto Sansa's shoulder and she bolted upright—they had come to take her away for causing such a disturbance. No sooner had Sansa shifted on her knees, ready to be removed, than the brother lowered his other hand to offer a handkerchief. 

Sansa sniffed. Raised scars, the relics of a past life, covered his rough skin. Sansa brought tentative fingers to accept the offering, but as she cradled the kerchief, she noticed one scar in particular: a small, white crescent in the crook of his thumb. Her fingers wandered up to trace the mark. Fire sparked on her skin when she made contact, and Sansa gasped. 

She knew this hand. 

Her head shot up to find the brother's face, and her heart all but stopped. Every speck of air left her lungs. Grey eyes flickered from underneath his drawn hood, and even in the dimmest light, Sansa would recognize the blackened ruin of his skin. 

She mouthed his name but couldn't convince sound to pass her lips. His eyes flashed and shone like polished steel, and he shook his head. He eased out of Sansa's grip—she had unwittingly taken hold of his hand—and backed away with wary steps until he reached the mouth of a shadowy corridor. 

He disappeared. 

Sansa looked at the limp cloth her hand, paused, then brought it to her face. She inhaled. She shivered. 

Sandor. 

He was alive. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor confesses his sins. 
> 
> Chapter track: Giles Corey - Blackest Bile

### Sandor

He saw her hair, bright ropes of fire that descended from beneath her hood down to her waist, and his breath stopped. His hand curled to a fist. 

Sweetness filled the air. 

She went to the Stranger, bent low, wept, and he knew. He would recognize those graceful sobs anywhere, unfortunately, and he needed them to stop. His burns smoldered. He should have left, dunked his face in the brine of the mudflats, and yet he found himself striding towards her. 

He laid a hand on her shoulder, extended a handkerchief in the other. 

Sandor didn't anticipate her touch, the featherlight caress of her slender fingers, white as snow. And he felt snow. Seven hells, he felt jagged points of ice burrow into his skin and upend his blood, and yet his blood stayed hot. 

His little bird. 

She was alive. 

Her wet, blue eyes jumped to find his own, and she saw right through him. His name crested her lips, mute, and his gut flopped like a landbound fish. He tore from her grasp—_it couldn't be, how, why_—but he would have no answers under her petrified stare. 

Sandor fled. He ducked into the nearest corridor, threw himself into the vestry, and locked the door. The room was cramped and barely fit Sandor's massive frame, but he was safe. 

_ How, _ he asked himself, over and over, _ how did she find me? _

She was supposed to be dead. But then again, so was he. 

Memory descended upon him like a hammer to an anvil. _ The imp. _They married her to the imp, sacrificed her maidenhead to a monster. Gods, what a farce. What a morbid mockery of anything virtuous or good. 

She flew away, though. She ascended into the sky and never touched back down. Until now. Under whose sky had taken cover? 

Fuck. 

He should forget her. He wanted to forget, and he had tried his hardest. Sandor set his hand over the ruined side of his face and left it there. Flame cracked and flared on his palm. Blood boiled just below. 

He would never forget. He would never escape the curse of his burns, no matter how many men he slaughtered or prayers he surrendered. He was a beast, and he wore the evidence on his face. Sandor couldn't hide from narrowed eyes or frightened maidens. He experienced their terror as his own, day after day, as he plunged closer to his own glorious end. 

That day wouldn't come soon enough. It should have already come, several times over.

He asked the Stranger, just once more, why he had been spared. 

There was no answer. 

He forced the air from his lungs and tried to recover it. The little bird had flown down from the Vale, and who the fuck was in the Vale? Sandor would never remember, but if she had been dragged to shore by a wolf, something had gone wrong. She would be gone soon enough—her brother was king—and she would take her girlish folly with her. 

Sandor loathed her, truly, for all her empty words and barren pleasantry. Her stare gutted him, sharp enough to plunder his bowels and leave him for dead. Seven hells, Sandor still wanted to blame her for his mishap at the crossroads. If she had just come with him, taken his offer, she would never have bedded the imp.

If she hadn't bedded the imp, Sandor wouldn't have drunk so much wine. He wouldn't have gotten sloppy when his brother's men pounced on him. He would have killed them off clean, sold the other wolfling, and then come for his fucking brother. 

Fuck. 

Sandor wanted his brother's head on a pike, but he wanted to roast it over an open hearth first. Low and slow. He would watch the flesh bubble and burst, spit and crackle, and finally go to ash. He would enjoy every second of it. 

He should go. Take a sword, ride out at dawn, and hunt for sweet Gregor. He would get his keep, and surely the young king would be glad to see Gregor killed. 

He would probably be glad to see Sandor killed as well. 

Sandor was a bad man, and he knew it. He murdered, he pillaged, he followed orders with decisive violence. He wasn't meant to be a holy man, hands hardened from nothing but a broom handle, but he had played the part. He spent hours pent up in a confessional booth, reliving every kill and every act of violence. 

Almost everything. 

Sandor dropped his hand and wiped the incidental film of blood onto his robe. He attempted one more time to steady his breath then exited the vestry. He hadn't finished his chores, but he didn't fucking care. He stumbled out of the sept and back into the balmy winter air. 

He needed to confess his sins against Sansa. That shame lurked low in his heart, rotten remains from another life that should have died with him. He didn't have words for what transpired between the girl and himself, but he had to get the rot out. It had festered for far too long. 

He would beg the Gods for forgiveness, and then he would forget. He would live out his days on the isle. 

_ Or. _

Heat writhed on his broken skin. His fingers itched. 

He could ride. 

\--

Sandor didn't sleep. He spent the evening on the opposite end of the isle. He ate his dinner in the furthest corner of the refectory. When the brothers all retired to the dormitory, Sandor followed. He laid in bed, but he didn't sleep. 

When light crept across the sky, Sandor made his way to the chapel house. At any rustle of grass or swirl of breeze, his hand flew to his left hip, ready to seize an invisible sword. There was never anyone to fight, but he hadn't cared to break the habit. 

Did he think the little bird would flutter in from nowhere and disarm him? 

She already had. It was her fault he ended up on the godforsaken isle, without a blade or scrap of dignity. She had filled his head with fanciful notions of honor, of _ goodness. _But nothing was good or pure. Not even her. 

She had ruined both of them. 

Sandor pushed inside the chapel house and waited in the cramped vestibule. The ceiling was low, the walls a shorter distance than Sandor's outstretched arms. He had a moment of doubt where he almost left, decided he ought to pillage the vault and find passage to the mainland, but just as he stepped to the door, the Elder Brother entered. 

"Oh—" he startled. "Brother Clegane." He craned his neck to observe Sandor, who towered over him, then shook the surprise from his reddened face. "Have you come to confess?" 

Sandor nodded.

“Very well, here.” The Elder Brother swept open a thick burgundy curtain over the confessional's opening and gestured with a tick of his head. 

Sandor ducked inside the booth, bending low so as not to strike his forehead, then crouched on the meager bench within. Its oaken boards complained under Sandor's weight. He tried to adjust, but succeeded only in wedging his body more tightly between the narrow walls. He relented and tugged already damp strands of hair over his scars. 

When the Elder Brother had settled, he slid open a small door between them. He cleared his throat with a swampy cough. “In the name of the Seven Who are One, do you wish to confess your sins?”

"I plead with the Seven to forgive my sins, may they hear my confession and cast their judgement upon me," Sandor grumbled, his voice distant and unfamiliar after its disuse. 

“What is the nature of your sin?”

Sandor exhaled. He expected the question, of course, it was part of the pitiful script of a holy brother, but Sandor didn't know where to start. His thoughts of the girl were wrong, nothing but unbidden greed and lust, that insatiable hunger for flesh, both to protect and devour it. He thought of killing anyone who dare lay a finger on her, including himself. 

The feelings were wrong, too. The heat in his blood, on his face, and lower. She made every last drop scream in his veins with nothing more than a turn of her lips or swish of her radiant hair. He had acted on those impulses, come too close, said too much. And the night of the battle—that was the worst of it. 

Sandor was never skilled at putting words to his plight, but he had to try. 

“There was a noble lady, a mere girl…" Sandor began. "I...I wished her ill." 

_ Fuck, I'm a fool. _

"Please, continue, Brother Clegane." 

Sandor swallowed back his shame. "It was at the Red Keep—no—it was before, at Winterfell. I saw her, and I wanted to take her…I wanted to unburden her of virtue. It was her beauty. Gods, it infuriated me to no end. I couldn't stand it. I wanted it gone." 

The Elder Brother clucked in a way that apprised Sandor of his disappointment. The holy man abhorred rapers more than anything, more than murderers. He often said killing put an end to one's worldly suffering, but raping encumbered a girl with all the world's evil and more. To inflict such terror on innocent creatures was the worst of sins, in his eye. 

So he sighed and asked, "Did you take her, Sandor? Unburden her, as you put it?" 

"No," Sandor answered with a sharp edge. "I could have, I threatened her, but no. I was never strong enough." 

"Did you strike the girl? Mislay your hands?” 

“No, I would never. Joffrey knew, he knew I'd slice his little cock off if he ever, ever commanded me to strike his lady. Told him as much." Sandor leaned his head against the wooden backing of the stall and closed his eyes. "No, she was perfect, pure in every way. It made me sick.” 

The shadow of her proximity sent bile churning in his gut. He had never known such a lovely, nauseous creature.

He would give anything to be back in the Keep with her. 

“It seems to me, dear Brother, that you may have—oh, how should I say—_ cared _ for the girl? When we reach our lowest despair, the presence of great beauty often invokes a misplaced disgust if one is incapable of affection," the Elder Brother used his customary tone of earnest authority. "Though there is of course the sin of wrathful thought. It is a poison to the spirit, as I'm sure we’ve discussed.”

“I know," Sandor groused. "But I can't fucking escape the thoughts, not since the moment I saw her." He sucked in a torn breath. "I failed her." 

“Brother Clegane, of whom do you speak?” 

“The eldest Stark girl." He faltered as blood throbbed beneath his scarred skin, then pushed her name from his tongue. "Sansa. Sansa Stark."

“Ah, I see." The Elder Brother considered this for a minute, then said, "Tell me all that occurred between you and the Lady Stark.”

“I guarded her. She was Joffrey's betrothed, so I played my part as a royal pet. I escorted her around the castle, stopped her from pushing the boy king off the parapets. I even saved her during the riot from some handsy cunt. But—" Saltwater stung at the corner of Sandor's eyes. _ Pathetic, _but he pressed on. "I failed her. I fled the battle and left her among lions."

"That's when you set out on your own, then, in the riverlands?" 

"Aye." 

"So you never saw the girl again, after the battle?" 

"No. I thought her dead or disappeared, until yesterday, in the sept…" Sandor couldn't finish the thought. The memory of her rash touch. Her sorrowful eyes. 

Why? Why did she come back to him? Of all the places she could land, why here? Why now? 

He didn't deserve such pleasure. Such sweetness. But if her rueful gaze was meant as torture, the Stranger had surely bested itself. Sandor would live in agony knowing that Sansa's heart beat under the same sky. That they shared air. Even now, she rested not a ten minute walk's distance. 

He could take her, this time by force. 

The sound of another agitated cough dragged Sandor back to his uncomfortable surroundings. He resisted the urge to rest his hand on his face. 

"Something has happened to the girl, Sandor," the Elder Brother intoned. "Something terrible has brought her to us." 

Sandor straightened in his seat and leveled a mean eye through the tiny window. The Elder Brother met Sandor's gaze, his eyes wet and vacant, but he set his head forward just as quickly. 

"Yes," he answered himself. "She hasn't told me her truth yet, but I need you to promise me that you mean the girl no harm whatsoever." 

"Of course, I don't—I wouldn't—" Sandor huffed, then gathered his wits. "I wouldn't dare lay a finger on her." 

"You're in pain, Sandor." The Elder Brother waxed, disregarding Sandor's words. Sandor could practically hear him stitch his furry brow together and place a wistful hand on his heart. "You've been in pain your whole life, I imagine. You suffer a languor of spirit of the acuteness kind, such a profound intimacy with the Stranger and its black wiles. It's all too easy to succumb to violent urges, to steal beauty and pilfer virtue, when you've scarcely known it." He paused, then issued, "She's not to be taken." 

Sandor felt the Elder Brother's eyes on him, but he watched his own hands. He dug his fingers into his knees to keep from tearing the fire from his face. He tried to breathe. 

"It's our solemn duty to care for her virtue. You speak of taking and unburdening, and you speak dishonestly. You're not too weak to uproot her flower, you're too weak to admit you want it as a gift." 

"I don't—" 

"No, you hear me, Sandor Clegane." The Elder Brother put more vinegar in his voice than Sandor thought possible. "Whether the imp, a knight of the Vale, a clansman, or even a wolf has stolen her maidenhead, it makes not a lick of difference. She has been prey her whole life, every man a predator. Pure or not, she's frightened, and I intend to save her skin."

Sandor clutched the wall now. He dug his nails in the sticky oak to dull the overwhelming call to bury his first in whatever was nearest. He didn't need a fucking lecture on virtue. Wood, stone, flesh, or bone, he'd clobber it all the same and let his fury go in time. 

He growled, "Seven fucking hells, I know. I know what they want, and aye, I want the same. I had all the opportunity, but like a withered old crone, I stilled my blood and I kept to myself. I would rather be dead—and I should have been fucking dead already—than to know a world where maidens are fed to monsters." 

The room was loud with breath and blood, and the silence in between seemed to shout its emptiness. The Elder Brother waited some minutes, then sighed. 

"Tell me, Sandor, and tell me true, what do you feel for her?" 

Sandor thought of leaving. 

He saw himself bursting from the chapel, climbing to the highest cliff on the isle, and resting in the bed of jagged stone below. Instead, the walls pinned him in place. The weight of his grief burdened his bones. 

Sandor released a broken breath. He needed to get the poison out. 

"I feel weak," he started in a whisper, his voice void of any harshness. "I feel sick. Since the moment I laid eyes on her, she made a mire of my innards. I don't rape. I don't grope. I don't hunt women. When I look at her, the ashen world goes bright, and I can't stand it. I can't stand to think of her suffering, shivering alone in the night, running from black beasts. I want her to know only joy. I want her to sing." He exhaled all that he had left. "I would never hurt her, not even if the Gods themselves commanded it. I would rather be dead." 

The room was quiet, then. 

"Thank you, Sandor," the Elder Brother was slow to reply. "I will decide what is to be done with Lady Stark. Until then, please tread lightly." 

Sandor offered nothing but a grunt. Sweat had made its way into his burns stoked the flame. He wanted cold air, or better yet, the icy relief of the river. 

Thankfully, the Elder Brother bid, "If you have nothing else to confess, you may go." 

Sandor wasted no time in departing the chapel. He didn't fix his cowl. Instead, he let cool fog lapse at his scars as he stumbled through the septry grounds and down to the shore. 

What was it about the maiden that affected him so? 

He was an ugly man, a broken man. A man who endured one day to the next with scant reverie. But then he met her, his little bird. She rendered him helpless to whims of beauty and honor long forgotten. She disarmed him with nothing more than opaline skin, wildfire hair, and gentle manners. A girl shouldn't be so strong, but she was. 

She was stronger than him. Braver than him. He bore his own cruelty and she bore the cruelty of all men. She survived Joffrey, she survived the imp, and she survived a journey through the Bloody Gates. But what was in between? Who had caged her all those years in the Vale?

It came to Sandor suddenly like a knife to the ribs. 

_ Littlefinger. _

No man was as skilled a hunter as Littlefinger. 

If there was any chance of saving her skin, she needed to get far, far away. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa sheds her disguise.
> 
> Chapter track: Agnes Obel - It's Happening Again

###  Sansa

Sansa wiled away time in her cottage, pacing from one rounded corner to the next. The Elder Brother had asked her to come to supper that evening, her first meal with the silent brothers, and he was due at her door any minute. 

She had put on her armor, so to speak. The brothers brought her an ivory comb and she had pulled it through her auburn curls over and over until her hands ached. Then, she fixed two identical woven braids, as identical as possible when one lacked a mirror. She still hadn't any ribbons, so she made due with rags, and poised her plaits just-so over her chest. 

The drab wool dress the brothers put her in didn't do her figure many favors, with its nonexistent bodice and loose sleeves, but Sansa tightened her belt to make a prettier picture. She smoothed her skirts and rehearsed her pleasantries, her  _ thank you, you're too kind, I would be honored. _

She didn't feel quite as ugly. Her wrist had grown stronger, and her bruises had begun to fade to yellow. Sansa had dutifully eaten every meal the brothers delivered, because she needed to be beautiful. She needed to protect herself. 

Men would go to great lengths to earn the favor of a maiden—something in the gleam of her hair and flash of her smile could bend them to her will, gently. Sansa was learning to wield this power, to hone her feminine delicacy to the sharpest of points, and she intended to spar with the Elder Brother.

She would get her way, surely. 

Sansa had only just draped her mantle over her shoulders when a knock sounded at the door. She hastened to open it. 

"My lady," the Elder Brother bowed. He unfolded to his full height and displayed a crooked smile. "Are you ready to depart?" 

"Yes, Brother." Sansa returned the smile. "It is very good of you to escort me." 

"Wonderful, simply wonderful," he chimed as they set out on the rudimentary path to the septry. Sansa took small, uncertain steps so as not to aggravate her wounded leg, and Elder Brother offered his forearm. Sansa gladly took it. 

"Thank you, kind Brother," she hummed. 

"No trouble at all, dear girl. I assume Mya has already joined the brothers in the refectory?" 

"Yes, Brother. If she were a man, I believe she would have taken the vows of the Faith the day she arrived." 

"A keen observation," he chuckled to himself. "And have you enjoyed your time here on the isle, my lady?" 

"Oh yes, of course. I don't know how I shall repay your kindness." 

"Thank the Seven, it was they who brought you to us." The Elder Brother looked down to her with earnest eyes, and Sansa withheld a cold laugh.

The wolves brought her here. They sunk their teeth into her flesh and dragged her ashore in a carnal act of compassion, and they stranded her. She was no more closer to home, to warmth and loving kin. 

They left her here with the Hound. 

Sansa's boot caught on a jut of stone, and the Elder Brother steadied her at the waist. "Careful, my lady," he said as Sansa regained her footing. She issued a smile in thanks.

After they had walked another few minutes, the Elder Brother sighed. It was harried sigh, and suddenly the isle seemed much quieter. Sansa listened to perpetual roll of the river and the patter of her heart. 

"I feel it is my duty to inquire," he began shakily, hesitated, then began again more firmly. "How did you arrive in the Vale, Sansa, and why did you flee?" 

Words caught in her throat like trapped game—it was just as she suspected. Sandor had betrayed her identity. Before she could stop herself, his name fell from her lips. She clasped a hand to her mouth, but it was too late. 

"Ah, so you recognized Brother Clegane as well. Fear not, dear girl. He means you no harm, and neither do I. I simply want to know your story so that we may see you to safety." 

Sansa nodded. She unbound her lips and whispered, "It was Littlefinger." 

The Elder Brother's arm flexed beneath her hand, and Sansa heard him swallow. "I thought as much," he ceded. "I'm terribly sorry, my lady. Did he try—did he want—" 

"I don't know," Sansa answered, quick. "I can't remember. He hurt my Aunt, I think. He was making plots with men across the sea, but it's all so dark. He forced me to be bastard, promised me I could go home, but he wouldn't let me. I don't know why." Sansa pushed a breath past her trembling lip. "He called me names. Sweet names, but also ugly ones. He said I was a stupid girl, an imp's castoff, a witless bastard. He called me a precious, empty-headed cunt."

Sansa tried to clear the tears from her eyes, but they fell. She inhaled and confided, "I think he was right." 

A sob rippled from her throat and shook her shoulders. Shadows skulked in the dusky light amidst the barren apple trees and misty hills beyond. What had Littlefinger done to her? In all her memories of him she felt naked, stripped bare to his cool gaze and his words like sour wine. Wine she wanted to drink, wine that made her glow, but wine that filled her belly with blackness. 

She knew so little, but she knew she couldn't go back. 

When Sansa calmed, she sniffed, "I just want to go home. I want to go North." 

"Let us write to your brother," the Elder Brother offered. "I'm certain your family is beside themselves with worry. You've been thought to be long lost, so they will be all too eager to assemble an escort. If I sent letters tonight, I wager he'd have his men here before the next full moon." 

Sansa wavered—another would moon seemed a long time to wait, but she had she not been waiting for years? So she responded, "That would be wonderful, Brother. I should be very glad to be under my family's care once more. It would mean the world to me." 

"Well it's settled," he clucked. "You'll be home before you know." 

Sansa grinned up at him. Her bastard's guise crumpled at her feet, and she donned something genuine, something of herself. 

_ I will be home,  _ she sang to herself,  _ I won. _

So she chatted with the Elder Brother as they crossed the septry grounds. Blazing torches hung from the entry to each building, lighting the way and coloring the mist bright orange. They finally stopped at the largest hall, made of stone and twice as tall as the rest, and the Elder Brother ushered Sansa inside. 

The potent aroma of roast meat and mulled wine flooded Sansa's nose. Warmth washed over her cold-kissed skin, and her blush stayed. 

"This way, my lady," the Elder Brother whispered in her ear. 

He guided Sansa through the long rows of tables, every bench filled with robed brothers. They must have been the last to arrive. All the men kept their cowls up and their heads low. No one turned. No one looked. They didn't dare touch the abundant platters of quail, stewed apple, or buttered parsnips set before them. 

Sansa couldn't find him. The air was too thick, her eyes too watery, and all the brothers looked the same.  _ It's no use. He wouldn't be able to talk, anyway.  _

But if he could, what would he say? Did he still want her? 

Sansa had a brief vision of the smoky white cloak. A wet, bloody face and sharp knife at her neck.  _ Sing,  _ he bade, but she couldn't think beyond the reflection of green flame in his eyes and the reek of fear. It wasn't her own. 

The Elder Brother put a hand on Sansa's shoulder and situated her next to Mya at the head table. He went to his own seat and rang a small bronze bell seven times. It echoed across the long hall and faded into the corners.

"Welcome, Brothers of the Quiet Isle. This night we sup in the name of the Smith, and in his name we give thanks for the cleverness he has bestowed upon mankind. We give thanks for the purity of a hard day’s labor. We give thanks to each building that stands tall even in the roughest storm. In his name we pray. May the Seven bless our meal and fill our hearts as well as our bellies. Amen.”

“Amen,” the brothers incanted. 

With that, they lowered their hoods in unison and unwound the cowls from their mouths. Even Mya mimicked their ritual to let loose her short tangle of dark hair. While everyone else began to fill their plates and pour their wine, Sansa balked. 

Her hair made her known, and surely its flame would shine too bright. But Sansa didn't have to pretend anymore. She could be herself. 

So she swept hand over her hood and let it drop to her shoulders, unveiling her full blushing cheeks and her lustrous red plaits. No one paid her any mind. The brothers busied themselves with their dinner, and nothing but the clatter of knives and crack of the hearth permeated the air. Sansa sighed and stared glumly at leg of quail. She had suddenly lost her appetite. 

She let her gaze wander out to the brown sea of brothers—he had to be there, somewhere—but they all looked alike. She couldn't discern one wool-draped limb from the next. Her eyes crawled over each long bench, down the hall, and back into the corner. 

That's where she saw him. 

He ate with his scars facing the wall, so only the unblemished side of his face was visible, but Sansa knew the crook in his nose, his angular jaw, and his ink black hair. She feasted on his image, a familiar image after so many years amidst strangers. He was alive. She hadn't dreamed it. 

Where had he been? How does a swordsman end up a silent brother? 

Sansa would ask him, if he could answer. So many questions lingered. So many dark desires played out night after lonely night in the Vale.

If only he could answer. 

In the next instant, Sandor turned. His cold eyes landed on Sansa alongside a cruel scowl, and her heart became ice. It bore down on her lungs, and she struggled for air. Sansa wanted to weep. She wanted to throw herself at his feet. She wanted to beg for answers, but she also wanted to demand them. She wanted to turn the knife on Sandor, make him sing instead, a true song from the heart. 

Sansa wanted to strip him of his cruelty and leave only tender flesh. Would that make things right between them? 

Sandor pushed up from the bench and stood, his stare unbroken. A few brothers released muffled noises of surprise, another few paused their eating to gape. They looked from Sansa to Sandor and back again, and Sansa's blood thickened to syrup in her veins. Her heart failed to beat. 

Sandor left. He stormed across the hall; his ponderous steps rattled the stone and bounced off the walls, then he was gone. More whispers broke out, and before Sansa knew what she was doing, she leapt from her seat and followed. 

Her left leg made her gait stiff, but she hurried down the aisle and slipped through the heavy door. The frosty night air shocked Sansa's skin, but she couldn't waste time. She squinted in the fog, spotted his broad silhouette, and moved swiftly toward him. 

"Sandor, wait," she called. He didn't slow. Sansa sped over the cobbled path, ignoring the ache in her lungs. "Stop, Hound," she tried again. It worked. 

Sandor froze, then turned. Sansa came close, stopping only when she could feel the shadow of his warmth. He towered over her, as he always had, and the erratic torchlight dipped between his curtain of hair to reveal the crimson gleam of his burns and the exposed white of his jawbone. A shame, truly, that such a strong face should go to ruin. 

Sandor didn't speak. He didn't move. He loosed his ragged breath onto Sansa's face and glowered, and that familiar glut of fear toiled in his grey eyes. 

Sansa lost her words. Every burning question became soot on her tongue. 

In a small voice, she managed, "I hope you are well, Sandor." 

He shook his head and held his lips in a tight line. Before he could answer, another voice sounded out. 

"Alayne?" 

It was Mya. 

"Alayne?" She asked again, then surfaced from the dark mist.

Sandor didn't linger. He tore off from path and down a shadowy slope without sparing a glance back. A single tear wended its way down Sansa's cheek just as Mya snatched up her hand. 

"You're not supposed to yell, Alayne," she hissed. "You're not supposed to leave without being dismissed." 

"Oh, who cares for the rules," Sansa whined. "Besides I'm not a brother, and neither are you. I needed to—it was Sandor—" 

"Aye, I know the Hound. He's a raper, did you know that? Raped his way through Saltpans and enjoyed every moment." 

"No," Sansa gasped. She tried to tug from Mya's grasp but her wrist was too weak, blood throbbed below the tender skin. "You're lying." 

"Doesn't matter. Come back inside before you make fools of both of us." 

"No." 

Sansa had never seen such a mean look in Mya's eye. Perhaps she did want to be a brother—she was muscular like a boy, and she had cropped hair to match. Besides, she was always rather plain. But she wasn't rude. She was Sansa's friend. 

"Fine," Mya spat. She let go of Sansa's hand, but she didn't relax her furrowed brow. "Let's just go back to the cottages. I wouldn't want you to get lost,  _ princess _ ."

Sansa's breath caught. Water filled her eyes.

"That's right, I know. I've known for a long time." 

Mya didn't dawdle. She launched down the uneven path towards the cottages, and Sansa had no choice but to stumble at her heels. 

"Mya, please," she begged. "Who told you? Was it the Elder Brother?" 

Mya scoffed, "No, but I'm glad to hear the Elder Brother isn't as dimwitted as the entirety of Littlefinger's court." 

"Mya." Sansa reached for her arm to steady her pace, but settled for traipsing at Mya's side. 

"It was Yohn," she finally replied. "Yohn knew. He told me to befriend you. He arranged the flight through the mountains, put all the pieces in place, and told me to take you. There were supposed to be others, but the Howlers got there first." 

"What? How could you—" 

Mya exhaled a tangle of breath. "Yohn said if we made it to your kin, any damn one, he'd tell me my father's name. That's why I did it." 

"You took me from Littlefinger." It was meant to be a question, but it came out as truth. Yohn and Mya had conspired to steal her. They had risked her life in the Mountains of the Moon on the off chance that she would rejoin her family. 

How could she? Sansa thought she had a friend. 

"Littlefinger's a traitor. He killed your aunt. He may have started the whole damn war, and you told me that yourself. You told me he's not going to stop at the Vale, that he wants the North, that he wants the whole damn kingdom. To all Seven hells with their schemes, the lot of them. I don't want a part of it." 

"Does he want me back?" Sansa asked in a boneless voice. 

Mya didn't answer straightaway. She dropped down the ragged path on light feet until they reached the cottages. "This one is yours, in case you've forgotten," she said in front of a nondescript wooden door. 

Sansa came to face her. The threat of tears made her face ache and forced her lips into a frown, but Mya's eyes didn't betray even a shred of compassion. She exhaled her exasperation, and spoke in harsh but low voice. 

"You don't remember, and that's probably for the best. If you knew how I found you the night we left, you'd be on a horse. You'd saddle up that courser and ride far, far way. You'd be better off alone in the riverlands, among direwolves and broken men, than back under Littlefinger's spell." 

"Mya, what—what happened?" 

"I won't tell you, Sansa. I'll let you live your world of knights and princesses. You'll have your king brother. You'll have your lemon cakes and berry custard, your silks, satin, gems, and gold. But you won't have me. I'm through being a pawn in someone else's game. I like it here. I'm staying put."

Before Sansa could manage so much as a sigh, Mya spat, "Goodnight, your grace," and then she was gone. 

Sansa stood in the cold night for some time. She took in the frigid air and released it, one breath at a time. Tears prickled her skin. She was herself again. She wasn't a bastard, but she was still lonely. The river droned in the distance. It mocked her. A wolf howled, but Sansa might have imagined it. 

She ducked inside her room and fell into bed, mantle, boots, and all. She wept. 

What had Littlefinger done to her? Had he stolen that final, precious piece of herself? Was he already on his way to collect her and do it again? 

Sansa couldn't stay. She didn't want to be trapped on the isle with Mya and the Hound while she waited for rescue. She would take up a torch, steal a mount and ride, just as Mya had said. She didn't have anything to pack. No one would miss her. 

She was better off dead than woefully alive, ready to be plucked up by whichever beast craved her flesh the most. 

Sansa clutched her emerald gown at her chest and breathed. The last time she had worn it was the day of the hand's tourney, when Sandor saved Loras. He fought bravely, Sandor did, and later that night he told her the stories of his scars. He scared her, but she wasn't scared in the way he thought. 

She was frightened because she felt his pain so acutely that it may have been her own. Sandor spread his rancor with every fevered word, and Sansa was kindling. He lit her ablaze. 

But why? 

Why did he always come to her in her darkest moments and nudge her not quite to safety, but just out of harm's way? Why was he here now? 

His words came to her; they held her tight and warmed her blood, just as his white cloak had done. 

_ I could keep you safe. No one would hurt you again, or I'd kill them.  _

Sansa had to leave, but perhaps she didn't have to go alone. Face nestled in soft folds of velvet, she slept. She dreamt only of Sandor. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor's plans to leave the isle are thwarted by his little bird. 
> 
> Chapter track: Yung Lean - Blue Plastic

### Sandor 

In the middle of the night, a bright half-moon floating in a sea of stars, Sandor walked to the river. Even in darkness, the route was familiar. Steady steps in soft earth, a curl of western wind, and the perpetual heave of water and breath filled the otherwise noiseless sky. 

It was Sandor’s favorite time of day: the beyond dark, the dead dark. While everyone else slept, he woke, to live out the still hours of the Stranger. 

When he arrived at the muddy shore, he paused to witness the immensity of the river, which reflected back a distorted impression of starlight. The sky and water together merged to make their own infinity, something bigger than men, something of the Gods. 

Sandor breathed. 

Then, he shed his cloak, his boots, and his robe. Icy winter air lapsed over his bare skin, but he pushed himself forward into the even colder embrace of the river. Nothing felt too cold, not truly. He knew he could freeze to death, like any man, but the sting of frigid water provided cruel comfort. It would be his last opportunity to bathe for Gods knew how long. 

He was leaving, he had decided. As soon as the little bird had chased him from the dining hall with those wide blue eyes and firebright braids, he knew: it was time to go. 

_ I hope you are well, _she had said. Fuck that. Sandor had never been well. 

He would pay a courteous visit to the Elder Brother, saddle his stallion, and ride out. 

Sandor waded up to his waist and poured great handfuls of water over himself, but he couldn’t wash the scalding heat from his face. He couldn't answer the questions that swam in his thoughts. Why had she landed on his shore? Why could he not banish her from his mind? He felt her presence like a knife to the gut, but she had no blade, nothing to draw blood. 

Sandor dropped underneath the surface and stayed, letting his breath bubble out of him. Hollow darkness replaced this air and the bright fire that flashed endlessly in his mind. Down here, there was no flame, no Gregor, no little bird. 

He allowed himself mere seconds of nothingness, then surfaced, gasping to reclaim life above the water. He needed to survive long enough for revenge. His skin numb, limbs burdened with blood, Sandor trudged back to shore. 

After redressing, he took the path back through the septry. He filched a torch from outside the stables and began his ascent up the hillside. His muscles ached more than they did in his younger years with ghosts of injuries long since healed, but his body wasn't soft. He had spent countless hours digging graves on the isle, and the rest of his spare time he spent in the vault, handling steel, staying sharp. 

Because he knew he would need his strength. He had not fought his final battle. 

Sandor reached the vault just as a sliver of blue light trickled onto the horizon. It would be a clear day—a good day to ride. He dropped his weight against the oaken door, then sealed himself inside. The vault was a near endless cavern, very dark, walls lined with racks of misplaced treasures. Countless weapons of all sorts, clothing, cookware, anything a man could need to make his own way. 

First, Sandor found a new set of clothes: a cloak, a thick leather jerkin, and a roomy tunic, all dyed black. The garments, though simple, were far superior to those of a brother. No fighting could be done in a robe—a man was as good as a gelding—and Sandor was no gelding, not anymore. 

Sandor claimed his favorite blade from a suspended iron rack in the far corner. It had a simple grip wrapped in black leather with dragon glass set in the pommel, and felt well in Sandor's hand—balanced, deadly. He passed more than a few hours with it, seeking a shadow of the relief of combat. 

The weight of the blade and its scabbard pulled Sandor closer to the earth, and though alone, he smirked. He always liked the burden of steel. 

He had begun to collect more mundane supplies when a gentle, almost inaudible knock sounded at the door. Sandor stopped, listened. There was another knock, then another. Sandor abandoned his loot and threw open door. 

His little bird. 

She blanched at the sight of him, as usual. Sandor went for his grip and was delighted to dig his nails in its yielding leather. He reminded himself to never go so long without a sword.

"What do you want?" He growled through clenched teeth. And why did she look so fucking pretty?

She was no longer a girl—her hips and breasts pressed against the wool of her dress with the insistence of womanhood. Her cheekbones swelled too, curtailing the roundness of youth and leaving behind elegant lines that touted noble beauty. 

He mostly noticed her hair, however. Two perfect plaits, like two beams of transposed sunlight, fell to her hips. _ Living flame_, Sandor thought, and his burns flared their accord.

He couldn't bear to meet her eye. 

Eventually, she managed to stutter, "I-I'm looking for the Elder Brother. Does he live here?" 

Sandor let out a cold laugh. "So the little bird is lost. You've come to the wrong place, I'll tell you that." He slammed the door shut and pushed past Sansa, and though he made no contact, she fell back a step and wobbled. Sandor caught her arm to steady her. "Careful, girl." 

She gave him those cool blue eyes. His scars ripped with heat. 

"Haven't you taken a vow of silence?" She frowned. "Where are your robes?" 

"Hah. I'm breaking the damn vow, girl. I'm going to get what's mine." 

Sandor started up the hill. His feet inadvertently guided him toward the Hermit's Hole—he couldn't think of a quicker way to escape her. She huffed at his heels.

"Are you going west?" She posited. 

Sandor forced out an agitated grunt. "Aye," he answered. "I'm going west." 

He pressed on, around the winding path, made of nought but wood planks sunk deep in mud. The clouds had parted to reveal a colorful dawn, all pinks and purples. At this height, the entire western half of the isle revealed itself. Sandor could even see that sweet sliver of grassy land beyond the mudflats. He would be there soon, but not soon enough. 

"I'm going west too," the little bird chirped. "Then I'm going north. I'm going to home to Winterfell." 

"Sounds lovely," Sandor grumbled.

Sansa said something else, but the boom of Sandor's fist on the door to the Hermit's Hole drowned out her soft voice. She stopped by his side and said in a cross voice, "Did you hear me?" 

Sandor slammed his fist on the door again, then five times over, and paid the girl no mind. Before she could get in another trifling query, the Elder Brother appeared in the entryway. His eyes were dull from sleep and his paltry grey hair sat askew on his misshapen head. He didn't smile. 

"What's all this?" He looked from Sansa to Sandor, then narrowed his eyes. "Sandor," he scolded. 

"The little bird wanted to see you." 

"And what of you? I see you've dispensed with your robes." 

He scoffed, "Aye, they're gone, and they're not coming back. I'll be gone too, then." 

A small scene broke out. The Elder Brother went in for his usual pedantry, Sansa began to whine something about an escort, and just as Sandor turned to leave she grabbed the edge of his cloak.

"Make Sandor take me," she proclaimed. 

Everyone went quiet.

"Come inside, both you, now," the Elder Brother issued. It wasn't a suggestion. Sandor groaned, Sansa pouted, but they did as they were told. 

The Hermit's Hole was a compact cave-turned-residence, with dusty tapestries on the walls and yellowed books in every nook and cranny. A fire crackled in the hearth, and a pot atop it bubbled and hissed. It smelled like turned milk. 

"Take a seat," the Elder Brother bid. He shuffled over to his cooking while Sandor and Sansa fell into chairs at a massive round table in the center of the room--an ancient piece of furniture that the first hermit originally carved himself in that very spot. It wasn't to Sandor's taste. 

He averted his eyes from the girl, though he could still hear her every wisp of breath. Before he could stop himself, he pictured the matching rise and fall of her chest, and he inhaled the sweet scent that drifted from her satiny hair and pearly skin. His blood stirred. 

"Well then," the Elder Brother started, placing a tray with three stone cups on the table. He served each of them, then took his own seat. "It's honeyed goat's milk, please drink up." 

Sandor didn't. He only glared. 

Over the top of his cup, the Elder Brother asked, "What troubles you, my lady?" 

Sansa clutched at her wrist--there was a bandage there--and kept her eyes downcast. "I need to leave," she moped. "I want to go today, and Mya says she won't come with. I'll go alone if I have to, but I wanted help, I wanted to ask--" 

"For Sandor." The Elder Brother finished. 

"Yes," she breathed. "I wanted to ask for Sandor." 

"What say you then, Brother Clegane? You seem quite ready to ride yourself. Going to hunt for your brother? As good a time as any I imagine." 

Sandor took up the milk and gripped the stone with all his might. The curdled mixture inside quivered but didn't jump. "I'm going for my brother," he grumbled. "But I'm not going north. The girl will have to find another _ noble escort _." 

"But Littlefinger…" Sansa whispered. 

"What of him?" The Elder Brother rested a hand atop Sansa's, squeezed.

"I think--I think he'll want me back, and I don't want to go. I want to go home." 

"Your uncle Edmure has Riverrun," the Elder Brother said to Sansa, then leveled a resolute stare at Sandor. "Sandor should be able to take you that far. No finer choice of protection on the whole isle, I daresay." 

A few cold moments slipped by under two sets of intent eyes.

_ Littlefinger. _

Fuck Littlefinger. Fuck anyone and everyone who brought the little bird to his shore, bruised, weak, and yet gutwrenchingly beautiful. The sorrow that swam in her eyes was real. She was prey, and she knew. But what good was he? He was no better, his thoughts not a lick more pure than any other man. 

But he would never hurt her. He could save her skin, once and for all. 

Sandor dumped the thick milk down his throat, swallowed. When he set down his arm, Sansa reached out and rested her fingertips there. They were weightless and somehow as cold and ponderous as the moon. 

"Please, Sandor," she urged. "Remember what you told me the night of the battle? Do you not—do you not still feel the same?" 

The white hot scald of flame swept across his skin. He watched her fingers quiver on his sleeve, then dared to find to her eye. He didn't see fear there, not fear of him. It was fear of something darker, something much more strange.

He had left her to lions. He couldn't leave her again. 

He sighed, "I'll go as far as the crossroads, and not a step more." 

Sansa's face broke with relief and she clasped a hand to her mouth. The Elder Brother grinned. "It is settled then. I'll write to your uncle and brother. Have them send men to escort you from the crossroads. Does that sound well, my lady?" 

Sansa nodded. She eased a tear from her eye. "I would be delighted, Brother, thank you. And thank you, Sandor." She took his wrist, forced his eye. "Thank you." 

They left the Hermit's Hole, Sandor charged with the task of gathering supplies, Sansa bid only to rest before their departure the next morning. The afternoon passed in an aching haze as Sandor trekked around the septry from one place to the next. 

What did a lady need for such a journey? 

Sandor didn't have gems, silk slippers, or fine Qartheen liqueur to offer. He would find something in the vault for her. Something that would make her feel well, if he could even think of such a thing. He couldn't let his ignorance unnerve him. He needed only to see her safely home, and he knew he was capable of this much. 

Yet with each excruciating hour onward, his ignorance manifested itself in a flush of heat to his burns and an ache in his chest. No matter how intently he willed his breath to steady, his heart writhed, rotted, as though thousands of hungry maggots feasted on the blackened flesh beneath his ribs. 

Sandor begged the Gods for numbness. He wanted nothing short of oblivion. 

But the fucking maiden, his little bird. She made him hurt. She made his blood simmer, everywhere. If he craved death, she rendered the opposite. Something about her presence, her radiance, elicited a woeful awareness of his own vitality. 

Sandor cursed, silently, and trudged on. He had hoped he would never experience that feeling again. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The maiden and the dog leave the isle. 
> 
> Chapter track: Camel Power Club - Oboe

### Sansa

Sansa left her room at dawn. She had nothing, save for the clothes she wore and the bundled emerald gown her arm. She said goodbye to the modest furnishings and the smooth stone walls. She knocked on Mya's door, but just the same as before, there was no reply. 

Sansa walked up to the stables alone. Briny mist lapsed at her skin, and she took shallow breaths. She found her way up the uneven walk, through the orchard, and around to the stables. Sandor stood outside with Driftwood—no, Stranger—bags fully packed, a helmet held at his side. 

He didn't smile, but he never did. 

Sansa greeted him with a slight curtsy. "Good morning." 

Sandor didn't answer. He reached for the gown and Sansa belatedly surrendered it. While he busied himself with packing her only treasure, she offered her palm up to Stranger. 

"Careful," Sandor warned. He gave her a disapproving look. 

But Stranger only nickered like before and pushed his muzzle to her hand. Sansa delivered a few loving strokes, a satisfied grin on her lips. "He likes me," she said as went around to the horse's side. "I think he remembers." 

Sandor grunted. "Come on, then." 

Sansa took his gloved hand and let herself be guided atop the saddle. When she was situated, Sandor fixed his helmet, and set off down the trail. She said more goodbyes to the isle as they departed the septry grounds and descended into the mudflats below. The tide was low enough to allow them passage, though Stranger's hooves and Sandor's boots stuck in the mud as they walked. 

They passed the time in silence. Mud gave way to a grassy shore, and they joined a crude road just beyond. Sansa kept her mantle close around herself and reminded herself to breathe. She had succeeded. She was going home. Each step took her further from untold danger. 

She had Sandor's protection. No one would hurt her. 

\--

Half a day's ride went by in silence. Sansa bided her time surveying the landscape, or, more frequently, watching Sandor from behind as he lead them down the road. She still couldn't believe she had earned his escort, and now she was in the sole company of a sullen swordsman. 

Sansa had so many questions for him—she longed to know his story. At one point she cleared her throat, and Sandor’s head shot back so quickly he scared the words from her lips. So she observed him in silence, her heartbeat fluttering like moth wings from the newness of it all.

How was she supposed to act towards him? He was a callous swordsman, like any other. He had been on the kingsguard, even. Sansa decided she should treat him politely, as if he had taken the knight’s vows. 

She decided she should forget their kiss, too. 

Even with this resolve, Sansa couldn’t acquit herself of agitation. The winter air pricked her exposed skin and deeper into her lungs, making her aware of her each and every breath. She was going home, of course she should be excited. She was free. More than being free, however, she had protection. She had Sandor. 

He was as tall as a statue, his muscles carved like marble. His heavy shoulders swayed through the wool of his cloak to the time of his determined strides. No one would dare challenge him, unless they fancied a loss. 

However, as the hours wore on she noticed his pace slowed, and his left leg stiffened as he walked. 

"Shall we stop to rest, Sandor?" Sansa felt awkward speaking down towards him, or speaking to him at all. Her voice seemed loud and distant. He cast a glance up at her. 

"Aye, if you wish." He guided them off the gravel road some distance, into a field. They had been riding through a large grassy expanse along the river, dotted with patches of marsh. The grass faded to yellow with the fall, but it retained its beauty, at least to Sansa. She longed for wide open landscapes after so much time cloistered in the mountains. 

Sandor held out his hand to help Sansa off the saddle. His chivalry sent a full blush to her cheeks, and she cursed the unbidden quivering of her pulse. He’s just a swordsman, she reminded herself, accepting his hand. 

Sansa stepped on to the ground below, avoiding Sandor’s eye, and walked to where a large flat rock emerged from the grass. She perched on the edge and smoothed her skirts, with her back perfectly straight, her knees together, and her ankles crossed. Riding through the wilderness by its very nature imperiled ladylike behavior, but Sansa refused to let the rough situation affect her manners. 

Meanwhile, Sandor rummaged in the saddlebags, finally removing a strip of cured meat and two apples. He fed one of the apples to his stallion, then came to sit in the grass before Sansa. He split the meat and passed Sansa half, along with the other apple. 

“Oh, thank you kindly,” Sansa said with deliberate courtesy over the thrum of her heart. Sandor met her eye but said nothing. He tore off a chunk of the meat and gave it a vigorous open-mouth chew. 

Sansa took tentative bites of the apple, which to her dismay was rather mealy. The silence began to wear on her. 

“Sandor,” she probed, then waited for him to look up from his food. “What happened to you? After you fled, I mean, from King’s Landing.” 

He scoffed, then said, “Funny story, that.” He pushed the remainder of the meat into his mouth and continued, “I wandered through the riverlands. Had a run in with the brotherhood without banners. Captured your sister, the one who looks like a boy, had a run in with some of my brother’s men, they poked me full of holes, and then your sister left for me dead. Not far from here, I’d wager.” 

Sandor looked over his shoulder as if to search for the spot of grass where he’d lay expecting death. 

“My—Arya? She was with you? Is she alright?” Sansa stumbled through her words, manners forgotten. She had spent hours, days worrying for Arya. 

“Don’t know. She has a damn sharp little sword. Fights like a boy. Falls asleep whispering names. She didn’t give me the mercy of death, but I suppose I can forgive.” The Hound spoke dispassionately, his weary gaze on Sansa. 

Sansa studied Sandor’s face. He was ugly, of course. It was undeniable—the fire had lay waste to his face, leaving behind a barren wilderness of black and red flesh. Yet somehow Joffrey struck her as being much uglier, despite his pretty features. 

Sansa couldn’t discern if Sandor’s scars frightened her anymore. She wanted to be startled by his ungainly wounds, to relive her fear, but she found herself more concerned with Arya. How was that her sister had roamed free with the Hound while Sansa had to be locked up in the Red Keep? 

To her surprise, Sandor’s voice broke through the silence. “And what’s your story, little bird? How did you fly off to Vale?”

Sansa sighed. She didn’t want to explain herself yet again, but she owed him the same honesty he had afforded her. 

“It was after Joffrey was poisoned…Littlefinger took me on a boat, we went through the Vale. I didn’t know I was a captive, until…” Sansa skipped over the worst details, “‘til Bran was king. And he wouldn't let me leave.” She swallowed back the tears that threatened to emerge._ Not now, not now _. 

“Littlefinger's a cunt if I ever knew one. A pervert too. Gods forbid, he had it in for the Tully women.” Sandor met Sansa’s woeful eyes. “Ah, fuck, don’t be upset.”

Sansa straightened and blinked away the tears. She had forgotten Sandor’s coarseness. The crude honesty was oddly refreshing, however. Littlefinger was horrible, and to hear it aloud validated many sleepless nights she spent alone in the Eyrie. 

“I’m glad to be gone,” was all she could think to say. Sansa looked down at her feet to her simple leather boots and sighed. She could pretty again when she was in the safety of Winterfell. “If I may ask, why did you want to leave the septry? It is rather nice.” 

“Oh little bird, do I strike you as a holy man?” He let out a bitter chuckle. “No, I have business to tend to. But I should do one more favor for the Seven.” 

“Where are you going?” Sansa queried. 

“I'll bend the knee to your good king brother so he doesn’t chop off my big my ugly head.” Sandor flashed a spiteful grin. “And then I’m going to hunt for my sweet brother.”

“Your brother...” Sansa thought of Gregor. Hadn’t he been killed by the Martell prince? They spoke of it when she reached the Eyrie. She couldn’t bear to divulge such hearsay. “I would wish you luck, Sandor.” 

“I’m sure you would, little bird. Never mind that. It’s best we keep on.” Sandor stood and extended a hand to Sansa. 

She wavered. For all his improper behavior, he was keen to be her guide. He cares for me, she reminded herself, the Elder Brother said so. She took his hand, or rather the sturdy leather that protected it, and mounted the stallion once more. 

\--

When night began to fall, Sandor guided his courser to a woodsy outcropping some distance from the road and began to set up camp. Sansa stood against a tree, watching while he unpacked the saddlebags, forbidding her gaze to wander into the shadowy distance between the trees. So much evil could lurk in the dark. Her heart leapt at the sound of every cracked branch or stir of nocturnal creatures who shared the forest. 

Thankfully, Sandor was quick to light fire. He pulled over two thicker logs that could serve as makeshift chairs, then beckoned Sansa with a slight nod of his head. She shuffled over and took a seat. The warmth of the flames offered immediate comfort; her shoulders dropped and jaw unclenched. 

The Hound cooked for them, too. He boiled winter grains with meat and a sachet of spices that made her mouth water. Sansa hadn’t even given thought to the food they would need on the journey. She had told herself she’d starve if it meant she arrived home eventually. 

When Sandor served her a plateful of hot food, he passed her a cup of wine as well, and Sansa forgot her troubles. She inhaled the fruity, bitter scent of the drink and took a sip before she even ate a bite of dinner. Sandor had apparently nabbed one of the thicker strongwines from septry stores; it burned her throat and lit her belly on fire. 

“Oh, I've missed wine so.” A frivolous thought, but Sansa felt obliged to speak aloud, to dispel the lingering awkwardness between her and the Hound. She couldn’t bear this journey under the duress of silence. 

But Sandor didn't reply; he fumbled to set up a canvas tent on the other side of the fire. Sansa shrugged and forwent manners, eating her dinner and draining her cup of wine without another word. Her head had begun to swim by the time Sandor joined her across the fire with his own bowl of food.

Sansa twirled the loose end of her braid, watching him with a lazy fascination, as though the whole world were trapped in sticky honey. Sandor took large spoonfuls and near inhaled them with loud slurps, and Sansa wondered if the half-burnt side of his mouth made it difficult to eat slowly. Food could readily slip from the gaps in his malformed cheek, and she couldn’t fault his crude manners if that was the case. That would simply be rude. 

The Hound took a generous swig of wine straight from the flagon, then held it out to Sansa and refilled her cup. She was glad—nothing like strongwine to calm one’s nerves. Her pulse slowed, but the clangor of unanswered questions rattled on in her mind. Sansa lost her will to cage her meandering thoughts. 

“Why did you leave King’s Landing?” She solicited, a pert stare on Sandor. 

“Hah. Can you think of no reason yourself?” He swallowed another spoonful of porridge, eyes downcast. 

Sansa exhaled, “No, why did you leave that night, after the battle?” She wouldn’t let Sandor evade her. The bright memory of green flames danced before her. The stink of wine, rough lips on hers. 

“It was time to go. That’s all. Fucking sick of being of being a dog. You can’t say you enjoyed the company of the Lannisters, either.” He looked up from his food to meet her eye, exciting Sansa. She had won his attention. 

“No—I—did you not take pleasure from following their orders? In killing?” She pressed.

“Hah,” Sandor scoffed. He put down his now empty bowl and drank again from the flagon. “Oh, it’s a pleasure to kill, little bird, you should know this by now. You think I’m good for anything else? No, the killing was never the issue…it was the fucking scheming….the punishment of the...” Sandor met her eye and immediately looked away, “of the innocent. It was time to go.” 

Sansa couldn’t think of a reply. Memories of Joffrey’s violence weighed her on mind and stole her breath. Joff had punished her, even though she had done nothing wrong. He was supposed to be her brave prince, then her brave king. Now Sansa had nothing. 

“But you didn’t get to marry your little prince, did you?” Sandor was thinking of Joffrey too. “I was there at the Twins when your brother, the elder one, was killed. Him and your mother, all of them. I mean, I saw the aftermath. Ah, what bloody mess that was. I knew your betrothal was worthless then.” 

Sansa’s stomach turned at the thought of her mother and Rob slaughtered by Walder Frey. It was so unfair.

“I don’t want to hear of it.” 

Sansa regretted speaking to the Hound in the first place as the glow of wine diminished to dreariness. She dropped her head to observe her tightly clasped hands, thinking only of her dead loved ones, drink sharp in her belly. 

Sandor didn’t relent, however.

“No, instead they wed and bedded you to the imp. You don’t hear much news on the Quiet Isle of course, but word is you schemed with your imp lord and poisoned the dear boy king.” 

“No, I—” Sansa started, indignant. “Those are all lies, Hound, and I never—” She couldn’t collect her thoughts enough to defend herself; she only offered an equally low blow. “Did you pillage and rape girls at Saltpans? Because that’s what I’ve been told.” What could he say to that? 

But he didn’t speak. Sandor laughed a guttural laugh, his mouth agape, charred cheek flexing like molten earth. The fire flickered across the crevices of his burns casting shadows that distorted his features into something inhuman. If it weren’t for the sound of his cruel laughter, he almost looked as though the flame swallowed him anew, that he was in pain, flesh melting from bone. Sansa bit her lip to still its trembling and blinked to banish Sandor’s beastlike image. 

When his private amusement ended, he met her fearful eyes. 

“Ah, I’ve frightened you again, little bird. Just like old times.” Another devious smile, more fear in Sansa’s heart. “Let me tell you something, dear girl, and listen well. The Hound is dead. If there is a Hound out there, it’s sure as hell not me. And me, a raper, oh, that’s quite good, isn’t it? Doesn’t matter if it’s true, with a face like this.” He thrust his burns closer to the flame, “I may as well have raped a thousand women. Girls. Livestock, even. People love nothing more than tales of monsters, and oh, I make the perfect fucking monster, don’t I?” 

Sansa’s heart writhed—she worried momentarily that she had accidentally spoken her unkind thoughts aloud. Truthfully, she did not think Sandor was a raper, she only wanted to aggravate him the same way he had done to her. The Elder Brother had assured her Sandor’s intentions were pure, but Sansa knew even beyond those assurances that Sandor was no deviant. 

In her young years, Sansa had come to know the wolffish glint in men’s eyes when they thought impure thoughts of her. Of undressing her, taking her with or without permission, deflowering her. But Sandor didn't look at her as though she were prey; he never had.

He beheld her with a distinct yet unfamiliar expression now, through the roaring flames. His eyes betrayed anger, perhaps melancholy, but also something else. The something else unnerved Sansa, needling past the dullness of drink. His stare was a blanket of ice: sharp points sheathed her flesh and chilled her core. 

The fine hair on Sansa's arms raised. She shuddered. 

“The Elder Brother said you care for me.” 

Sandor tilted his head, cold stare on Sansa. 

“Ah, is that what was said.” He replied softly, calmed from his previous fervor. He swirled the flagon but didn’t drink. “Can the little bird think of nothing else but being cared for?” 

He continued in a subdued grumble, “No need to answer that, girl. These weak sentiments are beyond a loathsome man such as myself. Sure, I care for you. I cooked your dinner, I set our camp, and I’m taking you to your kin. Does that satisfy you?” 

“Oh, yes—” Sansa recovered, trying to recall why even dared to ask such a thing. “I am satisfied. Thank you, for all of it.” 

“Save your thanks for when you’re safe in bed.” Sandor stood, towering over both the fire and Sansa. “We better sleep now, little bird. The tent is for you. I’ll keep watch out here.” 

Sansa nodded and hastened to stand. Her knees wobbled as the day’s exhaustion washed over her, but she wasn’t scared anymore. Heavy drink and heavier conversation had fogged her mind, and Sandor’s large frame provided a nebulous warmth as she stepped shakily past him and laid to rest amongst the warm woolen blankets in the tent. 

\--

Sansa woke to the sound of birds chirping and a sharp pain in her lower abdomen. She groaned internally, regretting the wine, and wondering where she could relieve herself in such proximity to Sandor. She rose to kneeling and poked her head out from the tent’s opening.

A few feet away, Sandor lay sleeping. A thick cloak covered his body, and he rested his head upon another bundle of fabric. Sansa acted decisively and crept out of the tent. Please don’t wake up, she begged wordlessly as she tiptoed past Sandor and into the sparse trees beyond. 

Her mind still reeled from the words she shared with Sandor last night, but the wine blurred it all. She couldn’t recall if she had been scared by the Hound. Sandor. This arrangement was so improper—to think, a lady travelling alone with an ill-tempered man-at-arms. 

She wandered further away from their encampment, looking for somewhere to hide, to crouch. Oh, it was so embarrassing. 

After walking on for another minute or so, Sansa glanced back to make sure Sandor was well out of her field of vision. She had arrived at an enclosed thicket of low trees and tall grasses. This was as good a place as any, she thought with trepidation. 

Before she could lift her skirts, a rustling noise sounded from among the nearby grasses. 

Her blood ran cold. 

“S-Sandor?” She called out. Her eyes darted wildly around the surrounding area, but she couldn’t move, her limbs were suddenly as heavy as lead. 

“Ah, what do we have here. A lonely doe?” A strange man emerged from the shrubbery, not three feet away, and he approached with a sickening swagger. “No, a fawn. Even better.” 

Sansa opened her mouth to scream—dried mud encrusted the man’s pockmarked face, save for his hooked red nose, and his tattered clothes were stiff with soil. Before any sound came out, a wiry hand clenched Sansa’s jaw, and the man pulled his face close to Sansa’s. His stench made her worry the smattering of brown flakes on his skin were worse than mud. 

“Shh, dear girl, it will be over quick. No use in fighting...wouldn’t want to get hurt, would we?” His breath dropped like slime on her cheek. Sansa’s eyes were wide and watery, but his hand muffled her wailing and permitted only the fruitless quake of her jaw. 

The man slid his knife down the center of Sansa’s bodice. Through her fright she almost didn’t feel the sharp pain of steel on skin, but blood bloomed on the rough spun wool, and the man hastened to pull it away, exposing her chest to the crisp morning air. 

The contents of her bladder released in a warm stream down her legs, and tears poured from her eyes. 

Sandor, please, don’t let him take me. 

Her mind drifted away, and though the world didn’t darken, Sansa ascended to some distant place, warm and noiseless. 

Just let it be over quick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🙈


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor comes to Sansa's rescue.
> 
> Chapter track: Odezenne - Nucleaire

### Sandor 

Sandor woke to weak sunlight lapsing over his face. He grunted, still groggy from last night’s drink, his throat sandy. His pulse thudded in his ears and down to his cock, which pressed inconveniently against the wool of his breeches.

He groaned, annoyed. What had he been dreaming of? 

Recollection was futile. He remembered frightening the girl, of course, but little else. 

No point in dwelling on it, Sandor thought, and dragged his aching torso up to sit. 

The fire smoldered next to him. He saw no sign of Sansa, so he assumed she was still sleeping off the wine. 

Sandor stood, walked a few paces, and relieved himself in the nearby shrubs, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the girl didn’t surprise him. Seven hells, what a ludicrous arrangement this was. Sandor could think of few appropriate circumstances for a rough man like himself to travel alone with a maiden of sixteen, and even worse, she was a lady of noble upbringing. 

When he finished, he called out. 

“Time to wake up, girl.”

No reply. 

He crouched by the tent and tried a softer, “Little bird, we need to leave.” 

He listened for the sound of her rousing from slumber but heard nothing. He grunted, cursing the situation, and lifted the opening of the tent. 

His scars throbbed, and he swallowed, dry. 

She wasn’t there. 

“Sansa?” Sandor turned to survey the campsite, again. 

She was nowhere to be seen. Sandor was alone, save for Stranger and the skeletal network of winter flora. Had he already fucking scared her off? Where could she have gone? He was right there, in front of the fucking tent, all night. 

_ She’s fine,_ Sandor tried to reassure himself, _ just find her_. But blood rushed to his burns and lingered, pulsing to the ever quicker beat of his heart. He unsheathed his sword and paused, listening. 

A cacophony of fluttering wings sounded from behind him, and Sandor whipped around to face the source of the abrupt movement--dozens of crows had burst from a thicket of cottonwood trees. 

“Sansa!” He yelled, taking broad strides toward the thicket. 

“Sansa!” He called again, closer. If anything happened to her, if she were hurt, if she were taken, if she were killed--Sandor’s stomach heaved. Fuck. Some fucking escort he was. “I’m not fucking around, girl!”

Nothing. 

“Sansa!” 

Sandor closed in on the thicket, his breath ragged. The force of his shouting tore at his throat; his voice was gravel. He hadn’t yelled like this in years. 

“Sansa!” 

_ Gods, let her be close_, he begged. She couldn’t have gone far. 

Bare twigs snagged his tunic as he pushed through a cluster of shrubs into a clearing, and another flash of distant movement caught his eye. It wasn’t Sansa--no--who the fuck was it? 

Sandor broke into a run.

It was a man, a filthy man, wending his way through the trees, struggling to pull up his dingy breeches. Sandor pursued him, his blood hot in his veins. He trampled over tangles of deadened winter grass and swung his blade at any imposing branches, closing the gap between him and the cunting vagrant. If he had done anything to Sansa--fuck.

Sandor’s fingers itched. He would make use of his steel. 

The stranger gasped for breath, sluggishly bobbing around the trees, until his foot caught on a root, and he slammed face first to the frosty ground. Sandor bounded forward and trapped him by the neck; his glove sealed off the man’s windpipe. 

Sandor lifted him like a rag doll and pushed him against a tree. A broken man. He stunk. His face was covered in shit, yes, actual fucking shit, and so were his clothes. He must have slept in a fucking pig sty. Sandor exhaled, refusing to gag, and glared. 

“Where is she?” He demanded, his voice level despite the heave of his lungs and pounding of his heart. 

The man’s pimpled face turned violet, but Sandor did not relax his grip. 

“I said, where is she. The girl.”

Sandor brought the point of his sword to the man’s stomach and pushed it into the soft flesh below. He squirmed, then raised his arm to point over Sandor’s shoulder. Sandor didn’t turn to look, however. 

“Did you hurt her? Did you stick your filthy cock inside her?” 

The sword eased deeper into the broken man’s guts. Threads of purple veins on his face threatened to burst; pustules on his nose did. Sandor gave the man’s neck a little shake to effect an answer. 

He shook his head no. 

Sandor released all the breath he had inadvertently held, then withdrew the sword from the man’s belly and dropped him. He collapsed to the ground on his hands and knees, sputtering and squawking for air like wounded fowl.

Sandor didn’t contemplate mercy. With swift deliverance, he slammed the edge of his sword down on the back of the man’s neck. The blade gave slight resistance as it struck the man’s spine, but Sandor severed the bone to completion. The vagrant’s head flopped into the grass below and found rest in a fountain of blood.

Sandor didn’t pause to rejoice in this kill, his first in years. He needed to move quickly. He needed to find his little bird. 

So he stormed back in the direction he had come, begging the Gods that the girl was unharmed. His heart hammered against his ribcage as he retraced his fresh boot prints, pushing through clouds of breath. 

When he found the clearing again, he spotted her, laying against a tree. Her bright hair hung limply down across her shoulders, a beacon of red in the distance. 

“Sansa,” he grumbled, his throat too raw for a shout. 

As he came closer, Sandor could see was shaking, sobbing. She was alive, at the very least, and yet Sandor’s scars continued to flare, the sting of sweat and blood fueling their ire. 

“Sansa,” he called again, in a whisper. “Little bird.” 

Sandor sheathed his dirtied sword and fell to his knees before her, sinking low in frosty grass. 

Her hair was not the only red. Bright blood coated the exposed skin of her chest and soaked the remaining scraps of gown that fell to her waist. The man had given her a nasty gash between her breasts, which would have been laid bare to the elements, if they weren’t painted crimson. 

Sandor pushed Sansa’s plaits from her chest, allowed himself mere seconds to assess the wound, then tore his cloak from his shoulders to shield her nakedness and still her shivering. 

“Little bird...little bird, you’re safe,” Sandor attempted comfort, his hands unsteady. 

Sansa couldn’t be consoled. She gasped for air, then spewed out convulsive wails, her head and shoulders shuddering in time. Sandor cupped her damp cheek to direct her gaze but found little respite in her terrified eyes. 

“Little bird, did he…” Sandor couldn't bring himself to say the words. He had caught his man with his pants down; he feared the worst. 

But he didn't have to elaborate. Sansa expelled a great sob and shook her head no. 

Thank fuck. 

“Shhh, little bird, let’s get you out of here.” 

He slid his arms underneath Sansa’s slight frame, then stood, cradling her close to his chest. He marched through the thicket, back towards camp, his heart pounding. She would be fine, he reassured himself. The wound was bloody, but shallow. 

Holding Sansa, Sandor helplessly recalled his sister. He recalled picking up her limp body from under the poplar tree and carrying her home--such a gentle weight for so great a sorrow. Gregor said the fall was an accident, but it was always accidents with him. 

Sandor forced a seething breath through his nostrils to banish the threat of tears. 

Sansa would survive. She held her body tense against Sandor’s, and the pulse of her heart fluttered through his tunic, which was becoming increasingly damp. Sandor looked down to make sure the wounds hadn’t worsened, but realized Sansa’s dress was soaking wet. 

Of course, she had fucking wet herself with fright. His forearms prickled from the moisture_\--is this honor_, he thought with ill timing, _ I didn’t fucking ask for this-_-and he shifted them, but succeeded only in pulling Sansa closer. 

When they arrived at the encampment, Sandor laid Sansa down atop the blanket he had left behind that morning. Her cries had diminished from sobs into gentle whimpers, but she still hadn’t spoken a word. Sandor rifled through their bags and pulled out a canteen of water and dry linen tunic, which would have to be sacrificed as a makeshift bandage. 

“Shhh, you’re quite alright.” He said as he came to kneel by her side, bandages at the ready. He lifted his fingers to the cloak but hesitated. 

“I have to dress your wounds, little bird.” He declared, resolute. “I have to move the cloak to see.” 

Sandor looked over his shoulder, out into the surrounding trees, and back to Sansa, wishing he were anywhere but here. 

“May I?”

Oh, pathetic. 

However, through tearful eyes, Sansa nodded. 

_ Seven forgive me_, Sandor pleaded as he pulled back the soiled woolen cloak. Dried blood encrusted the alabaster skin of her chest, and the long cut between her breasts bled fresh. Sandor didn’t stare long, but instead ripped the fresh linen into thick strips. He doused one strip with water and cautiously dabbed her wounds. 

As expected, the cut was quite shallow. Sandor eased the linen across her chest in steady strokes, absorbing the blood, leaving behind pure white skin. He wavered before bringing his hand to her breasts, but swallowed his squeamishness, and wiped them clean with shaking fingers. They were small, perfectly round, yielding. 

Sandor grunted, then wrung out the soiled linen into the grass beside him. He returned his attention to the cut, which bled less urgently. He pressed a clean length of linen against it, then lifted Sansa’s body to sheathe her chest in the remaining fabric.

After tying a knot at her ribs, he breathed. He had seen much worse on the battlefield. This was nothing. 

“That ought to do for now, little bird,” he soothed.

Sansa didn’t reply. She stared blankly into the grey sky above them, her jaw quivering, her breath feeble. Never had such a soft sound rang so harshly in Sandor’s ears. He searched for something to say, but Sandor possessed little skill in the art of mindless chatter--that was Sansa’s lot. Still, he needed to stop her weeping, somehow. He couldn’t stand it. 

Sandor glanced up into the woods, searching the naked trees for some sort of answer of what to do next, but received only the ever steady flow of heat to his burns. 

So he slipped his arms back underneath Sansa--he would take her to the tent, so she could rest, or maybe they would just get on the horse and ride--but he faltered, indecisive. Instead of standing, he eased the little bird onto his lap and locked his arms around her trembling body. 

“Shh, little bird, you’re quite alright. I promise, you're alright.”

Sansa sniffled, then adjusted to bury her face against Sandor’s chest, her hand clasping the rough wool of his tunic. Sandor rocked her gently, ignoring the heavy thud of his heart that echoed back the incessant clamor of his self-doubt. He didn’t know what the fuck he was doing, and yet…

Sandor pressed his left cheek down on her soft hair and inhaled. He smelled mostly fear and body soil, but also a subtle sweetness, like an unopened flower bud. He wanted to banish her fear and leave only sweetness, to ruin the men who would hurt her. Gods, he would never dare to hurt her. He hoped that she should never fall in harm’s way. No maiden deserved to be harmed, but if anything ever happened to Sansa--

Sandor sighed. The dark creatures in his guts vaulted about, weakening him. If he weren't already on his knees he would be sure to double over. 

Eventually, Sansa’s tears subsided and her body stilled. Sandor startled when she turned her head up to meet his eye. 

“Thank you, Sandor,” she said in a small voice. “Thank you.” 

She nestled against Sandor’s heart once more, and he swallowed to suppress the nerves that surged like sick to the back of his throat. Every single drop of blood in his body vibrated, charged with something both light as flame and heavy as stone. This feeling wasn’t the thrill of the kill, of parting a man’s head from his body in an instant, nor was it the feeling of spilling seed in ecstatic release. 

Sandor felt alive. 

And for that, more than anything, he longed to disappear. He would rather be dead than suffer fanciful feelings that stung like salt to an open wound. This was no life. 

“Sandor…” Sansa’s watery eyes were on him again, searching his face. His heart ached, knowing whatever comfort she sought, she wouldn’t find. “I’m so sorry, Sandor.” 

“No, little bird, it wasn’t your fault,” he returned. “He’s gone now. He won’t be back.” 

“I...my dress…” 

Sansa looked down at her bandages and disheveled woolen gown, and all the heat returned to Sandor’s face. What was he thinking?

He withdrew his arms to set Sansa back onto his cloak, then stood. 

“Do you have another?” A stupid question. 

Sansa gazed up at him, clutching herself. “Only...only the emerald, the velvet gown.” 

But Sandor had already moved back to their bags. He knew exactly where he had stashed the damn green dress, which glowed like a gem in his mind’s eye, potent, everlasting. _ If this dress is destroyed…. _

Sandor dispelled the thought. He retrieved the gown and returned to Sansa, then held it out to her at a distance, his eyes averted. Sansa timidly took the dress and let out a sound somewhere between a whimper and sigh. Sandor met her baleful stare. 

“Here,” he extended his hand. “Come now.”

She accepted, and Sandor lifted her to stand uneasily on her feet. She didn’t move, save for a shiver. 

“Do I--should I--” Sansa stuttered.

Seven fucking hells, she was pitiful. Her dress was brown with blood, crumpled around her hips, stained with piss. Large strands of hair had freed themselves from her plaits and fell at odd angles over her reddened, swollen face. 

Yet she was still beautiful, and her desperation made Sandor’s face hurt. 

“I’ll turn away, but I can’t go far, not--” Sandor looked side to side. “--not now. You understand, little bird?” 

She nodded. 

“Very well.” 

Sandor turned his back on her. He scanned the area in front of him, but there was only Stranger. The stallion had remained calm all morning, and Sandor was grateful. He truly had never known a finer mount. 

The morning was quiet. The riverlands were quiet, mostly. Sandor hadn’t thought that bloodthirsty broken men would discover them so soon, although he knew why any man would want to hunt the lost princess. 

She was his burden, unfortunately. He longed for their journey to be over as soon as possible. He needed to get her to safety. He needed to escape her. 

“I’m finished.” Sansa said softly. 

Sandor pivoted to face her. His mouth opened to form a reply, but no sound passed. 

Such beauty shouldn’t be possible. 

The emerald gown shone brilliantly even in winter light; it clung to the soft swell of her breasts, pulled in her small waist, and flowed across her hips. Sansa had even rewoven her braids, which now laid neatly across her chest. All traces of her ill-fated attacked had vanished, except the worry manifested in the stitch of her brow. 

Sandor gave an absentminded nod.

“We should go then, get on the road.” 

“Of course,” Sansa agreed. “I’m ready.” 

She attempted a smile, but the light didn't reach her eyes.

Sandor struck camp in silence while Sansa reclined against a tree--he refused to let her help. So he moved around their campsite, first redressing in his jerkin and cloak, then striking the tent and repacking their bags. He pointedly left behind the soiled gown, hoping in time to forget the morning’s excitement. 

After dressing Stranger, Sandor guided Sansa to the towering stallion. He assisted her in mounting, and instead of staying below to lead on foot, Sandor pulled himself up on the saddle. He sat behind Sansa and took the reins with his arms on either side of her, keeping her close, keeping her from falling in her weakened state, or so he told himself. 

“Are you comfortable, little bird?” 

Sansa nodded, then pulled up the hood of her cloak.

Sandor kicked his horse into a trot and they rejoined the road. Sansa allowed him the reprieve of silence; he listened to the open roadside plains with an acute ear. Breeze filtered through dried grass. Crows circled and sang. The river rolled to the sea. They were alone. 

Sandor tried to ignore Sansa’s warmth, but every swell of her lungs pressed her body against his and reminded him: she was safe. 

\--

Hours later, Sansa spoke as they rode. 

“Why are you helping me?” A gentle demand. 

“I--because you asked me,” Sandor answered, a stalwart stare on the horizon. He adjusted his grip on the reins. 

“That's all?” Sansa urged. 

“We were both leaving the isle. The timing worked.” 

Sansa sighed, unsatisfied. “So why did you help me back then, in the Red Keep?”

The familiar wash of heat found Sandor’s face--is this what she had been thinking of during her silence? Sandor had been reckless in the attention he paid to the girl in the castle, and she had noticed. But why had he paid her such attention? Sandor clenched the reins, white knuckles under leather gloves. 

“Sandor.” His name was a sad song on her lips. “I need you to tell me if we should continue to travel together.” 

“Aye,” he exhaled, then fumbled for a tale. “I don’t have much to say. Joffrey was a terrible shit, his mother even worse, and she filled the court with the most treacherous scum she could find. Myself included.” A feeble attempt at honesty. “It was my duty to protect Joffrey, and by extension, you. So I did. Does that answer your question then?”

Sansa sat quietly, thinking. Sandor counted his heartbeat to forget the flame that danced across his face. 

“You’re not...oh, I just wish you’d be truthful with me. What happened that night Sandor?” She shifted in the saddle, her warmth like to drive him mad. “Why did you come to my room and offer to take me?”

The sky was simultaneously too large and too small. Sansa’s words drifted far up to the grey heavens, while the weight of her provocation emptied the air from Sandor’s lungs and settled low in his stomach. 

Oh, he hoped that he would never have to answer for their encounter that night, when green flame swallowed the keep. What did he remember? Blood, fire, fear. 

And her, he remembered the visceral longing, labored steps in a cold tower. His breath loud, his heart louder, and fire--a ceaseless scream, all light, no noise. 

Was it lust that drove him to her? He couldn’t deny it. He thought of her taking her, but wine weakened him. Wine made the fire quiet, but no less bright. He wanted to hide. He wanted to escape. So he drank until he fancied himself heroic enough to rescue a princess. They would flee the keep together, yes, such a silly proposition. 

Humiliation as searing heat blanketed the left side of his face. He was no knight and no prince. He was so fucking pathetic. 

“Why do you think of these things now?” He answered her question with his own, a cowardly parry. 

Sansa drew in a long stream of breath, paused. 

“There were so many nights...so many nights alone...with my thoughts, and nothing else. You...I thought of you. I just wanted to know if you thought of me too.”

Sandor felt her cries before he heard them; her back bumped against his chest to the rhythm of her gentle sorrow. He was pathetic, and he was a real cunt too, making a lady cry after she was nearly fucking raped. Fuck. 

“Please,” Sandor forced terse softness into his voice. “Please don’t be upset.” 

Sansa wept. Sandor scoured his mind for something to say, some pretty little reassurance, anything to make her calm. His eyes darted around the roadside--he prayed no one was listening and that their shared words would remain between them and the trees. 

“I thought of you too, little bird,” Sandor sighed, defeated. And out into the ill-fitting sky he offered, “Please forgive me.” 

Seconds passed as an eternity. 

“I do.” 

Sansa placed her bare hand atop his glove; her touch inundated him with ghastly cold from his burns down to his bones. 

_ How is it possible_, he thought for the hundredth time, _ that such a delicate girl can affect me so? _

No answer came. All was quiet except for the pounding of Stranger’s hooves on gravel and Sansa’s steady breath. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Siiiiiiiiiigh


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa recovers from her attack with Sandor's help.
> 
> Chapter track: Weyes Blood - Bad Magic

### Sansa

By the time they stopped for the evening, Sansa was a husk of herself. She wilted from the saddle into Sandor's strong arms and stared vacantly into the woods until he offered her food. She asked for bed instead. 

So she idled on a stump, wrapped in an extra cloak, while he set the tent. When he finished, he beckoned her with a slight nod, then parted the canvas to let her pass. Sansa fell inside her rudimentary shelter, realizing too late her gratitude had gone unspoken. 

She sat and breathed, listening to the rustle of Sandor building a fire. 

Pinpricks of firelight breached the dense network of thread, but failed to banish the darkness. A black flower bloomed inside Sansa. 

Why? She asked herself, over and over. Why me? What had she done to deserve this? 

Her face twisted but no tears fell. She looked down at her gown and brought shaky fingers to the laces of her bodice, then tugged to reveal her bandage.

She hadn't imagined it, sadly. A rusty line of dried blood had seeped through the linen, confirming what she hoped wasn’t true. What was more shameful: that she had allowed herself to be cut, or that she inflicted her imprudent appearance on Sandor, obliging him to treat her wounds? She shivered, recalling the press of his warm fingertips through cold linen. 

Why had she let this happen? Was she so reckless, so dense? 

Her ears perked at the sound of crunching grass just outside the tent. She drew a blanket over her loosened bodice to her chin. There was a sigh, or maybe a grunt, some indecisive shuffling, then Sandor's hand pushed through the opening to deposit a clay bowl. 

She waited until he moved away to inspect it: a thick slice of bread, cheese, and dried apple. She brought a piece of apple to her lips but they didn't part. Somehow chewing, swallowing, and letting the food sink into her belly seemed too great a task. So she pushed the bowl aside, her jaw trembling from the difficulty of it all. 

Sansa laid down, swathed in wool, and watched shadows dance in her mind. She willed herself to disappear, to yield to her own inertia, to cease to exist. 

But she woke up, alive, to the glow of dawn.

After dozing for some hours, she couldn’t ignore the insistent sunlight, so she rose to sit and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. A fire crackled outside the tent and birds sang. He would be there, just beyond the veil of fabric, breathing, living, the same as before. 

Sansa stalled. She combed through her hair with her fingers, braiding it five or six different times before settling on a style, cursing her lack of a handmaid all the while. She fixed her bodice with more curses--she had nothing else to wear, no nightgown, not even a chemise. No, she would travel in her precious gown, a conspicuous gemstone. 

She sighed, her breath tangled in her throat. How could she face Sandor after all she'd done? Not only the licentious wound and its subsequent treatment, but the questions she leveled at him later, on the road. 

It didn't matter, she told herself. He evaded her anyway. He didn't want to be bothered with her girlish worry; he wanted to take her to her family and leave her behind, forgotten. Sansa resolved to make as little trouble as possible for the remainder of the journey. To be pleasant, courteous, and quiet. 

And she couldn't wander, she added. She would stay close to Sandor. 

Sansa felt warm enough to leave and surfaced into the outside world with a flush of red on her cheeks. A carpet of white frost glittered on the deadened grass and leaves, and Sandor looked up from the fire to greet her with a candid nod. Sansa tried for a smile, but her face was too heavy.

She stepped toward him and sat on her preferred stump, drawing her cloak tightly over any exposed velvet. Sandor roasted three rabbits suspended over the flames, their skins discarded at his feet. She wondered how long she had slept, and how long Sandor had been awake. With each passing moment, her heart became more restless and somehow lighter, a feather in the wind, swirling aimlessly in her ribcage. 

She couldn’t meet Sandor’s eye. The rabbit skins seemed a better sight. She thought of their last living moments. Were they afraid? Did they know they were hunted? What fear is there in being ensnared after a life of freedom? Did they know they were free? Did they know they were but meat and skin, their spirits useless to all but themselves? Their spirits had vanished by now, Sansa knew. She prayed for their safe passage to the Stranger’s embrace. 

Sandor thrust a bowl under her chin and Sansa startled. She hadn’t even heard him move. In her shock her hands laid frozen her lap. She looked up. 

“For you,” Sandor announced. 

Sansa didn’t want food, but she didn't want to offend either, especially given the effort of preparing the meal. Sandor had pulled the meat from the bone and arranged it in a small pile next to some oats and cooked greens, all sprinkled with salt and pepper. Where had he found greens in the middle of winter? 

Sansa came to her senses and took the bowl. “Thank you, Sandor.” 

He shrugged and fell back onto his log by the fire, then focused his attention on deboning another carcass.

Sansa assessed her breakfast with sad eyes. She picked up a bit of rabbit tenderly, between her forefinger and thumb, and hoisted it to her mouth. The savory scent of death invaded her air, and Sansa gagged, dropping the meat. 

She had willfully forgotten most of the details of the prior morning, but she remembered the stench. When the man pulled down his trousers, pungent rot flooded her nose and burned her eyes; a terrible stew of sick filled her mouth and languished until she calmed herself enough to swallow. 

Her stomach flopped now, the shadow of stink loitering in her senses. How would she ever be able to eat again?

“Is something the matter, little bird?” Sandor had been watching her, unfortunately. She had already broken her promise to herself. 

"It looks wonderful, thank you. But I--I’m not very hungry." She attempted to recover her flailing manners. “Thank you, though.” 

Sandor tucked in to his own pile of rabbit, ignoring her. Sansa didn’t mind. She longed to be invisible, but she remained tragically alive, alone, with Sandor Clegane. How could he be so angry, so unrefined, yet treat her so gently? He came to her rescue yesterday, before the worst had happened, and tended to her cut. He spoke to her more sweetly than she thought possible. He held her. 

And he thought of her, over the span of time they had spent apart. He had thought of her too. 

Sansa pinched a soggy leaf and inspected it. Sandor had discovered some hearty winter greens, apparently, and they smelled more alive than dead. She let a fragment of leaf rest on her tongue, then swallowed. It tasted bright, better than anything she’d eaten in a moon. Something inside of her relaxed, and she found more space in her chest, more breath. 

She finished the remaining greens and even a couple of spoonfuls of oats before her stomach made complaints of fullness. Satisfied, she chanced a look at Sandor, but he caught her, unsmiling. 

“Are you feeling well?” 

“Much better, yes.” She managed.

Sandor nodded and rubbed the right side of his jaw. He looked as though he fought some unseen battle with himself. Eventually, he yielded. 

“I wanted to apologize for yesterday.” 

Cold panic slipped down her spine and Sansa straightened, her eyes moist. She glanced around the frost-kissed trees to check for those shadows, those dark men, that loomed eternal in her sense memory. Why did Sandor want to discuss such things? Why would Sandor need to apologize? Everything was her fault. She ran away, warranting her peril. She lured the shadows in. 

“I don’t want anything like that to happen again, little bird,” Sandor continued, speaking with practiced care. “I shouldn’t have fallen asleep. Shouldn’tve let you out of my sight. We’re out in the fucking middle of nowhere. We need to stay close. You understand?” 

“I understand.” Sansa returned, her throat tight. 

"I know this isn't a typical arrangement." Sandor stood, took two wide steps around the fire, and stopped in front of Sansa. She observed him, her head craned to clouds. "But I would like to get you to the crossroads, alive." He stretched out an open palm. "Your bowl, if you will." 

"Oh," Sansa flustered before handing over her half eaten dish, distracted by Sandor's nonchalance. 

"I'm going to wash up in the river." He gestured behind Sansa with his elbow, his hands full of dirtied dishes, to the calm water some twenty paces away. "If there's any trouble, shout." 

He stalked away, tipping Sansa’s neglected portion of rabbit into his mouth. From behind, one would never know his disfigurement, only his dramatic height and heavy musculature. He might even be thought of as handsome without the scars. Sansa pictured the right side of his face, the unblemished side, with his sloped brow, his straight and strong nose, and his jaw, sharp enough to cut glass. If both sides of his face matched, if his black hair grew twice as thick, then he would look well. 

Sandor didn’t look terrible now. He had removed his boots, rolled his trousers, and waded in the shallows of the river. Hard muscle and warrior grace guided the soft work of washing dishes. How many hours had he spent fighting, his arms quivering under the weight of his blade, his skin slick with sweat, but pressing on, for honor and glory? 

Sandor didn’t care about honor, Sansa remembered, but he wasn’t dishonorable. He could have taken her maidenhead and left for her dead, if he had wanted. Most men would have, but Sandor was unlike other men. He didn’t lurk in her nightmares, unfeeling and dark. Sandor was no shadow. 

Sansa shook away her indiscreet thoughts, but she couldn't still the tremble of her heart and an accompanying weightlessness. 

Sandor emerged from the water and set the dishes on the bank, but instead of returning to their camp, he stripped, peeling off his cloak, sword belt, jerkin, and finally his tunic. 

Sansa’s mouth fell open. She had thought, mistakenly, that the burns extended to his torso. But no, the Gods had sculpted his chest in staggering symmetry, punctuated only by battle scars. 

Unsheathed, the swell and sway of his body made Sansa’s pulse loud in her ears, hot on her face. Sandor splashed water onto his tan skin; he glistened in the sunlight. Sansa lost herself in this shine, imagining herself as a droplet, traveling across the contours of his muscle, exploring the feel, the hardness, the--

Sansa’s stomach dropped. 

Sandor returned her stare with a blank expression, and after a brief infinity of locked eyes, Sansa rotated to face the fire, her head low. 

What had come over her? Where had her decorum gone? Had the wildness of the riverlands affected her so? 

Her meager breakfast turned to stone and anchored her to the barren stump. She huffed, resting her chin in her hands, letting her mind float away even if her body couldn't. 

Some minutes later, Sandor appeared from behind her, dressed. 

“We need to go soon,” He said, rifling through their saddlebags. “But first, we need to take care of something.” 

Sansa lifted her head. Was he going to ignore--of course, Sansa realized. Sandor couldn’t care less for her bashful wiles. She strained to see what he retrieved from the bag, but she didn’t wonder for long. Sandor approached her wooden throne and presented a long blade sheathed in black leather. 

“It’s a dagger, little bird.” 

Sansa brought her fingertips to the weapon, first tracing along the embossed shape of a wolf’s head on the scabbard, then moving to the silver handle inlaid with a penny-sized opal. A cold thrill pushed through her skin: it was a Northman's weapon. 

“It’s beautiful.” She looked up to Sandor, hand resting on leather. 

Sandor smirked, “Yes, it’s beautiful, and it’s sharp as sin.” 

“Why--why do you have it?” 

"I took it from the isle. Figured it should come with us." 

"The opal…" her gaze returned to the precious stone, a facade of sunlight shattered to rainbows. 

Sandor chuckled, jostling the dagger in his hands. "It's all yours, little bird. But first, you're going to learn how to use it." 

"Oh, I never--" Sansa started, eyes wide. 

"I know. But I can't let you go unarmed, not anymore. Come," Sandor cocked his head towards patch of clear frosty grass. 

Sansa hesitated until she received Sandor's hand. He guided her a few paces to level ground, then pressed the dagger, with its scabbard and belt, into her palm. Her hand dropped under its heft. The blade was scarcely a foot long and still threatened to bend her wrist. 

"Put it on, first." 

Sansa nodded and fumbled, her fingers weak on a stiff silver buckle. Ladies’ girdles were nothing in comparison to this cluster of thick leather, all straps and metal, no start or finish. Sudden heat filled her cheeks and tears coated her eyes. She tried to blink them away to no avail; the tangle of leather blurred at the edges, a watery imprint of itself. 

"Little bird," Sandor reprimanded. "Give it here." 

She relented, pouting. 

"Ah, don't be sour. These things take time." 

Sandor fell to one knee. He eased his thumb over a series of three buckles, unlatching them, then thrust his arms between her cloak and gown to wrap the belt at her waist. His knuckles pushed gently against her stomach as he fastened the buckles, but he didn't linger. He gave the scabbard a quick tug and grunted, satisfied. 

"How's that?" He found Sansa's rueful face. 

She shrugged and shifted her hips. She didn't want to fight. She didn't want to hunt men and draw blood; she wanted to be sitting in a summer garden in a brand new gown alongside her ladies in waiting, sipping Dornish red, eating pomegranates and lemon cakes. 

“I don't want to fight,” she replied, her teeth clenched.

Sandor released a warm stream of breath, then said, “I know, little bird. I would hope that you should never have need to draw steel. But this for your own good, and my peace of mind. If nothing else, think of it as an ornament. It's a damn pretty blade. Deserves a pretty bearer.”

Sansa’s gaze jumped from the toes of her ugly boots to Sandor's stern eye. “P-pretty?” 

Oh, Seven forbid, she hadn't meant to say that aloud. Her blush deepened. 

“Aye, pretty. Here,” he stood and stepped back. “Try drawing it.” 

“Oh,” Sansa looked from Sandor to her hip, then back to Sandor. “Do I just...take it?” 

He nodded, and Sansa reached a clammy hand to the leather-wrapped handle, then pulled. The gleaming silver blade slid from its sheath, one inch at a time, until the tip released and the weight of the dagger rested in her unsteady grip. She lifted it shakily and pointed the end at Sandor. 

“Like this?” 

Sandor grinned, but shook his head. “Oh, little bird.”

He stepped around Sansa, then stationed himself behind her, his rigid abdomen flush against her spine. She strained her neck to look up at him, her extended forearm quivering, her heart a restless feather. 

“Like this.” He clasped her arm in his own, immersing her hand in his gloved grip. He pushed each of her fingers into position with careful quickness. “That's the proper hold. See,” he brushed her thumb. “Keep it against the crossguard. Does that make sense?” 

Sansa nodded, but she couldn't think beyond the press of Sandor's chest and the enveloping warmth of his arm. The same scent as the white cloak, something of spice and earth, showered down on her and turned her knees to custard. Here was a warrior, she thought. Strong, capable, dutiful. 

And kind. Sandor was kind. Sansa swallowed to prevent her heart flying from her throat. 

“I'll just show you some simple techniques, then.” Sandor continued, after a moment. 

“You can thrust down,” he lifted her arm up, then guided the blade swiftly to the earth. 

“You thrust out,” he pushed her arm forward to the campfire. 

“Or you can slash,” he drew the blade in a zigzag, from the head to toe of an invisible opponent. 

Sandor released her arm, then faced her. “Now show me.” 

Sansa bit her lip, but complied, working through each of the moves Sandor had demonstrated. Her forearm ached from the exertion, so she thought of the dagger as a dance partner, combat the dance. She found grace in the struggle and relief in droplets of sweat at her temples. When she finished, Sandor grinned. 

“Not terrible, little bird. Best stay on with slashing. Keep your strokes light, ready to defend. But you have to aim them at the right spot.” Sandor knelt and indicated the different parts of his body. “The throat, here. Under the arm, here. The heart, of course. Then there's the gut, here, or here. And,” he faltered, cleared his throat, then continued, “the groin, here.” 

His hand swept from his inner thigh, to where his tunic hung over his trousers. Sansa's eyes stayed here. 

“It's a foul move going for the groin, but you're a lady. Can't fault you a lady's play.” 

“I understand,” Sansa answered, finding her voice, then Sandor's face. “I can do that.” 

“Good.” Sandor smiled back, or his jaw twitched. “Let's get going, then.”

He stood, then strode to the tent. Sansa found the prospect of moving rather cumbersome, so she loitered. The dagger rested in her palm, a dangerous burden, a welcome treasure. The opal glittered in the mild winter light, and the blade did too, a small sun bursting from its point. 

She could carry this load. If not to fight, to shine. She tucked the dagger back in its scabbard, then smoothed her thumb over the pommel. The lightness in her chest didn't seem as much of a bother. 

Sandor had dismantled the tent and worked to fasten the bags over Stranger’s wide frame. When he finished, he called to Sansa. 

“Ready?” 

She was ready, of course, with nothing to pack. She wore all her possessions. So she joined Sandor at the stallion's side. He offered his hand, and she accepted, but before mounting, she addressed him. 

“Thank you, Sandor.” 

“For what?” 

“For the dagger. And...” She stole a glance to the swollen river. “And for yesterday.” 

Sandor's fingers tensed underneath hers, then relaxed. “It's no trouble, little bird.”

Sansa rested in Sandor's cold grey eyes. She would survive this journey, armed with the weaponry the Gods afforded her. A delicate touch, a well-placed smile, and effusive courtesy. She could win over Sandor. 

For survival, she repeated. To defend herself. 

She set her foot in the stirrup and allowed Sandor to lift her up and over the saddle. Seconds later, he swung behind her, his solid heat a shield at her back. Her lips drew upward, and she beamed, out towards the sparse marshy shrubs, and beyond, to the road on the horizon. 

“Are you comfortable?” Sandor’s voice passed over her head, and he kicked Stranger to a trot. 

“Yes, Sandor.” She wondered if he could hear her smile. “Perfectly comfortable.” 

Dissatisfied with mere wonder, Sansa turned back to show Sandor. For all his bravery and care, she felt well enough to continue their journey. His dark eyes flashed, but he said nothing.

Sansa didn't mind. 

She drew up her hood and lost herself in the constancy of his heartbeat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 💘💘💘
> 
> I feel very tender posting these chapters; they are so close to my heart and a pleasure to write. Thank you for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr's schemes are disrupted as Sansa and Sandor make their way west.
> 
> Chapter track: Ada Lea - wild heart

### Petyr 

When Corbray knocked on the door to Petyr's solar, he stilled his pacing. The lean man let himself inside and latched the door shut. 

“What is it?” Petyr's voice was venom. 

“A letter, m’lord. Intercepted it from the septry.” Corbray extended his arm and a crumpled square of parchment. 

Petyr snatched it up, his jaw tensing at the sight of the too familiar and woefully delicate scrawl. He opened the letter and read. 

> _Lord Tully, _
> 
> _Your niece, Sansa Stark, has washed up on our shore. She travels with an escort to the crossroads, and will require additional support to travel north. _
> 
> _Regards, _
> 
> _The Elder Brother of the Quiet Isle_

“Where did you get this?” His eyes shot up to find Corbray's blank, useless face. 

He cleared his throat with a muggy cough and answered, “One of the guards took out a raven. He swears it came from the isle, he recognized their bird.” 

“Get out. Now.” Petyr raised a finger toward the doorway, and Corbray complied. Both men were prone to fits of unbridled rage, and these fits were better experienced in solitude. 

Petyr almost screamed. He almost rest his fist in the brittle stone wall. He almost ripped each book from the shelves and made their pages into kindling. He almost, _ almost _ reached for that glass vial he stowed in his desk. One drop would do.

Instead, he stood in perfect stillness. The only motion came from beads of sweat that wended their way from his brow to his chin. 

His time was up.

### Sansa 

The riverlands unfolded before them, hour after hour, in more brown grasses and gnarled shrubs. Sansa would almost be bored if it weren’t for Sandor's steady breath behind her and the shelter of his arms at her side. The scent of smoke and spice billowed from his woolen clothing and shrouded Sansa in its warmth. She breathed it in gladly. 

Sandor wore a helmet now, to protect his identity. Sansa wore her hood low over her face for the same reason, though they seldom saw another living soul. Men out here lost their livelihood in the war and either fled or hid until nightfall as broken criminals. 

When the sun neared its wintry zenith, crumbling stone walls poked up from the roadside and directed them to a shell of a town. Thatch roofed huts had become thatch floored huts; mushrooms and beetles made homes of sagging wooden fences. 

Sansa looked for signs of people, of ugly men, but also familiar faces. She hadn't roamed freely in the countryside since her first journey to King's Landing. She wondered who survived the war, who ruled in her brother's kingdom. Littlefinger had worked diligently to keep her in the dark. 

On a distant hillside she spotted a flock of sheep, like dirty landbound clouds. She strained to see their shepherd but discovered no one. They passed a great pile of mossy stone, a fallen common house or tavern that writhed with the activity of field mice. Sansa shifted in the saddle and moved her stare to the road. She was never fond of rodents. 

At the edge of the rotting village, a hunched old man rode by them. His beard drooped to the head of his piebald pony, and he tipped a frayed cap at them. Sansa avoided his eye, focusing instead on Sandor's gloved hands. 

"Nothing good to be had in towns like that," Sandor said, when the old man had disappeared on the opposite side of the horizon. "Not since the war, and not since the start of winter." 

“I feel sorry for them,” Sansa replied. “I hope they fled before--”

“Before they were massacred?” Sandor scoffed. “Not likely, little bird. No, these empty villages are the breeding grounds of miscreants.” 

“The Brave Companions?” 

“Not anymore. Sure, they terrorized the riverlands for the Boltons, then the Lannisters, but after that, that was the worst of it. They served no master, followed no order, they killed because they could. If your brother has any sense he will’ve sent men to...take of them. But I suppose we’ll find out, sooner or later.” 

“Are we close to King’s Road?” 

“Probably. Haven't been making the best time, little bird.”

Sansa huffed. “Who’s even at the crossroads?” 

“Don't know. Last I was there…” Sandor turned his head, loosed his breath into the open fields at their side. 

“What happened, Sandor?” Sansa brushed her fingertips over his knuckles and watched his grip tighten. Her heart fluttered. 

“Ran into my brother's men, the fucking cunts. Spilled blood, should've died. Your sister was there. I told you. She wouldn't kill me either.” 

“I'm glad,” Sansa whispered. 

“What's that?” 

“I said,” Sansa whispered again, her speech now directed to Sandor's brawny upper arm, her eyes on the dark circle of perspiration underneath. “I'm glad Arya didn't kill you.” 

Sandor grunted but said nothing. Sansa didn't mind. She felt the irregular thump of his heart through layers of wool and leather--the only reply she needed. 

Within the hour, they stopped for lunch. Sandor guided Stranger through a maze of brittle shrubs to a secluded clearing along the river. Downtrodden grasses and firm mud blanketed the bank, disguising ancient stones underneath. 

Sansa dismounted and smoothed grass from a swell of stone, then sat. Sandor brought her a pouch of dried fruits; prunes, apricots and even Dornish blood orange. She nibbled her way through all of them while gazing out to the swollen river. She loved the sound of heavy water dragged to sea, its perpetual pull a reminder of her smallness, of the indifference of the Gods. Sansa found comfort in knowing the river would live with or without men. 

“It's nice, isn't it?” Sandor’s voice sounded from behind. 

“Yes, it's breathtaking,” Sansa replied. 

Sandor had removed his helmet and crouched on a rock a few feet away, working his knife around a portion of hard cheese. A tangle of black hair spilled over the left side of his face, so Sansa met his right eye, and tried for a smile. He ignored her, instead layering a slab of cheese onto bread and shoving it into his mouth. 

Regrettably, Sansa's belly ached with water. She surveyed the banks, knees jittering, looking past the low-lying shrubs for a thicker tree, and spotted one downriver. She stood and dusted her skirts. 

“Sandor, I, um, have to--” she glanced to the distant tree, then to her hands, wrung tightly in front of her.

“Do what you will,” Sandor answered her timidity. “Just be quick about it.”

Sansa nodded and rushed down to the bank, checking over her shoulder that Sandor paid her no mind. He had resumed his meal, unbothered.

Sansa stepped over patches of brambles that bit at her skirts and pushed through naked winter branches until she reached her chosen tree. She looked all around her and listened, though she saw only brown winter foliage and heard only her pulse loud in her ears. 

Resigned, she crouched at the base of the tree, lifted her skirts, and made water, every second agony. When she finished, she burst from the thicket, away from any untold danger she may have summoned, and back to the shore of the river. 

Thousands of small round stones rested just underneath the surface of the clear water, which glimmered in the afternoon sun. Sansa bent and dipped a tentative finger in the river, letting disturbed tide ripple around her. She smiled. She could wade and at the very least wash her feet, if she couldn't have a proper bath. 

Sansa peeked back to Sandor--he hadn't moved--so she unlaced her boots and hose and set them aside. Lifting her skirts, she dropped one foot into the river, then the other. Cold water swallowed her up to the ankles and crept in between her toes. She shifted them to find footing on slippery stone, giggling when she did. 

Oh, she hadn't played in water since she was a girl, and though cold, she missed the simple pleasure. Sansa braced against the current as she stepped further from the bank, her feet arching over the transient river floor. She scooped a palmful of water with her free hand, then rinsed her legs. A layer of dust washed over her goose pimpled flesh and disappeared in the shallows. 

Sansa sighed, satisfied. The cold had begun to steal the feeling from her skin, so she lifted her head, ready to move back to shore. 

Her heart stopped.

There was a man across the river. Yellow eyes peered out from behind a tree, watching her, then they were gone. 

Sansa lost control of her jaw, and her mouth formed exaggerated yells and cries that would never surface. The dark came in from the corners. They were here to take her. 

Unable to turn from the hostile stage of jagged branches and yellowed grass on the other side of the water, Sansa stepped backward, but her ankle collapsed on a round stone. She fell. Her backside struck a rock; wet mud pillowed her legs and soaked her skirts. 

“Oh,” she moaned, clawing at soft earth, trying to push her feet into a slurry of dirt and water and stone. 

But the shadows had advanced; her heart sunk in her ribcage and pinned her in place. Sansa couldn't find air, either. Tears warmed her face but her sobs were ghosts without breath. Where had he gone? How much time did she have? 

Strong hands gripped underneath her arms and pulled her from the water.

“What happened? What were you doing down here?”

Sandor.

He twisted her by the shoulders to face him, fingers deep in yielding flesh. Sansa couldn't find his eye. Her head rolled on her neck as she chased black specters. 

“Sansa, are you hurt? Have you seen something?” Sandor shook her to no effect, then trapped her chin in his palm. “Sansa, answer me.” 

“A man,” Sansa murmured. 

Sandor's eyes were wild. They ran over Sansa's reddened face, to the river, and back to Sansa's sodden gown. 

“Fuck,” he rasped, releasing her. “I don't see anything. Let's go.” 

Sandor strode to where Stranger waited, but Sansa couldn't move. Heavy water and mud burdened her velvet gown, and the soft earth claimed her bare feet. She whimpered and shivered as a breeze pricked the cold on her skin. She was helpless in a wet gown. She had nothing else to wear. She would surely freeze. 

Sandor noticed her, then came bounding back, an acidic scowl on his face. 

"Come on now," he called. "Let's get you cleaned up." 

Sandor scooped up her boots and hose, then plucked Sansa from the mud by her elbow. Every step sent spikes to her ankle.

"Ow," she whined, but Sandor didn't pay her any mind. He towed her across the clearing while she limped and hopped on the lumpy ground, her vision blurred with tears. 

Sandor dropped her onto a rock, and Sansa landed on the same raw spot as before. An ache like fire shot across her back. She winced, folded over herself, sucked in a ragged breath, and sobbed. 

“Little bird, we need to go.”

Sandor's boots appeared next to her bare brown feet, and a cloak fell over her shoulders. Sansa sniffed and spoke to the ground. 

“There was a man, Sandor. I saw him across the way.” Tears dripped onto Sansa's toes, and she fruitlessly smeared them through the drying mud. “I swear I saw him.” 

She straightened, and Sandor thrust a pouch at her. “Wash up. We're going.” 

Sansa took it and poured a shaky stream of water on her feet, then wiped them clean with the end of Sandor's cloak. Her ankle was red and thick, tender to the touch. She had no other choice but to refasten her hose and lace her boots, leaving the right one loose. 

When Sansa finished, she buried her face in the cloak to soak up her tears and snot. Her face crumpled instead. Blood throbbed in her ankle and at her back, hot and urgent. Her skirts laid heavy on her legs, two stalks of ice. Worst of all, thick mud coated her emerald gown. It was ugly. Sansa was dirty and ugly, and hurt, and alone, in the riverlands with the Lannister’s dog. 

He grabbed her elbow again and forced her to stand, then pried the wool from her face. 

“What?” He commanded, his grey eyes flickering like cold metal. His damp hair fell in thick strands and gaped over his burns. They were red and wet, angry cracks open to the winter air. It looked painful. 

Sansa couldn't find words. She shuddered. 

Sandor growled and pulled her to Stranger’s side, then dug his fingers into her ribcage to lift her atop the saddle, soggy skirts pressed between her legs. He didn't afford her an opportunity to complain--he threw himself behind her and reared Stranger into a gallop. 

Sansa wanted to fall. She wanted to be trampled and left for dead, but Sandor planted his substantial forearm on her lap to lock her in place. She would have to survive this journey, cold and broken. 

So she wept. She clasped her hands over her face but couldn't stop the tears. The men were after her. Strange men. But what if they knew her? Would they hurt a princess? 

“Don't cry.” Sandor consoled. “You're fine.” 

A whimper escaped through her fingers. Why was he so callous? Why did she have bear this journey with him? Sansa just wanted to be home. To be amongst people who loved her and treated her well. 

“Come now,” his voice softened. “I don’t doubt what you saw, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to wait and find out. You understand?”

“I understand,” she sniffed, withdrawing her hands. 

“You--it startled me...I didn’t want it to be like before," he sighed to the back of her braids. 

Sansa pulled up her hood and frowned out to the gravel road. The winter world was nothing but grey sky, brown fields, and black night. Sandor was black and grey too, a cold man. Why couldn't he just leave her on the side of the road? Let her be raped and murdered? It wouldn't matter. Everyone thought her dead already. They'd never know he was to blame. 

Sansa blinked, her eyes watery. She had forgotten the red of Sandor's burns. The warmth of his embrace. The dormant smoke in his clothes. The earth on his skin. 

Sansa breathed. Cedar, or perhaps pine. She reclined into his chest. 

Like a hearth, she thought. A bright hearth in the dead of winter. 

\--

By the time they stopped riding, a full moon hung high the dark night sky. Sandor drove Stranger a slight distance from the road around a tall hill, the back of which crumbled back to the earth, a sheer wall of compact dirt and rock that shielded them from passersby. 

Sandor lept from the saddle, his boots landing in the grass with a muffled thump. He offered a hand to Sansa. She found precarious footing on her swollen ankle, with her arms folded over herself and her eyes raised to the sky. The chill night air was thick in her lungs, a dark mire flecked with starlight. Her breath came shaky and slow. 

“Come, sit.” Sandor gestured to a length of wool he’d laid on the ground. “I'm going to start a fire.” 

Sansa took a few wobbly steps to the blanket then sat. She stretched her legs in front of her and grimaced--mud disguised almost all the velvet of her skirts. She attempted to scrape off the damp earth but succeeded only in mashing it deeper into the fabric. Sansa groaned, cursing the heat in her face and pressure of tears at her eyes. 

“What's the matter?” 

Sandor lugged a dead tree in one hand, an axe in the other. He dropped the trunk and took to snapping its great dry branches as though they were twigs. 

“My dress,” Sansa complained, “it’s ruined.”

“It'll be fine. The fire’ll dry it out in no time.” Sandor replied, tossing the tinder into a pile. 

He didn't understand, but Sansa couldn't blame him. Men were better suited to the wild. Sansa was through being filthy, achy limbs clothed in dirt. More than anything in the world, Sansa longed for a hot bath. A hot bath and the company of loved ones, whoever was left. If anyone was left. 

Sansa hung her head. Dark shapes danced in the periphery of her vision, rejoicing. They had already won. They had already claimed most of her family and left her behind to suffer. 

Sandor dropped a clattering armful of tinder in front Sansa, then stuffed a ball of dead grass under the branches. He struck flint, showering the grass with sparks and birthing flame. Sansa reached out her hands to thaw her milk white fingers. 

“Are you hungry?” Sandor queried, gruff. His scars gleamed in the firelight. 

“No, I haven't much of an appetite,” she sighed. 

Sansa looked to the steep face of the hill, now cast in bright orange light, flickering with shadows of rocks and roots. She couldn't think of food tonight. The weight in her stomach would be unbearable, though she should have _ something _.

“I would quite like some wine, if I may.” A perfect compromise. 

Sandor went to their bags and returned, dumping a measure of wine into a pewter goblet as he walked. Drink sloshed over his fingers and onto the blanket when he handed the cup to Sansa.

“Fuck, sorry about that.” 

Sansa cradled the goblet in both hands and took a large swallow before replying, “I don't mind; this is perfect. Thank you.” She peered up at Sandor. “Will you join me?” 

“May as well,” he answered. 

Sandor fell next to her. The wool blanket strained under his weight and tugged Sansa closer, close enough to know his smell and hear his breath. With broad arms over his knees, he poured himself some wine then set the flagon at his feet. 

“Are you going to eat?” Sansa asked the right side of his face. 

“Not hungry," he grumbled as he took a generous swig of the wine. “How's your ankle?”

“Oh--I think--I don't know. It hurts.” 

“Broken?” 

“How would I--I don't know. It's heavy and it has its own heartbeat." Sansa pouted, looking down at where the hem of her gown met her boot. 

“I can take a look, if you like. Make sure it's not serious.” 

Sansa sipped her wine, twice, then nestled her cup into the grass at her side. “I'd like that.” 

Sansa brought her knees in to unlace her boot. She winced as she eased the tight leather over her engorged skin but persevered. 

“There,” she displayed her stockinged ankle to Sandor. 

He shook his head. “The hose too. I can't see through wool, little bird.”

“Oh,” Sansa flustered, wine and fire painting her cheeks red. “Um…”

Her fingers hovered at her hem for a moment before she slid her hands under her skirts, reaching for her garter, blind. She found the buckle and released it with a gentle click, then rolled her hose down over her heel.

Her ankle was large, much larger than it should be, and an ugly sight--red, purple, and hot with blood. Oh, she couldn’t bear to be wounded and ugly for much longer. Sansa’s mouth twisted into a restless frown. 

“W-will that do?” Sansa managed after some time. 

“Aye.” 

Sandor set aside his wine and rested an ungloved palm on her shin, then swept his thumb across a spot of purple on her swollen ankle. His fervid touch melted the ice and ache, and Sansa curled her toes, overcome by the cure of his rough skin on hers.

Sandor retracted his hand. “Did that hurt?”

“Oh--it--no,” she lifted her gaze. “The warmth felt nice.” 

“Well, it's not broken, just bruised. You'll be fine. Keep it warm by the fire.” 

Sandor snatched up his goblet and drank, then refilled his goblet, and drank some more, staring pointedly at the fire. After a moment, Sansa replaced her hose and garter, then slid into her boot. She drank her wine, too. 

“Sandor?” 

“What?” He met her eye. Firelight revealed a crimson glint on his black skin, just as Sansa had suspected. 

“Your--your burns, do they--” 

“No.” Sandor snapped his head back, shielding them from view. 

“But they're--”

“No, little bird. Just leave it.” He sighed, drank, and added, “Please.” 

“Sorry,” Sansa mumbled into her cup. She only wanted to help. She could never get these things right. 

Sansa lowered her forehead to her knees. The velvet, or rather mud, was sticky and cold on her skin, but her head was too great a burden. She emptied her lungs in one long exhale. 

"What's the matter, little bird?" 

"I just want to be home," she sniffed into dark folds of velvet. "I don't want to die out here alone." 

Sansa thought she heard a laugh, so she unfurled, only to see a malignant grin on Sandor's half-burned lips. She frowned--she hadn't attempted a joke. 

"What is there to laugh about?" 

"Oh, you're not going to die, not here. No one dies of a wet gown and twisted ankle." He held her stare, unmoving, agitated flame reflected in his eye. Did he intend to insult her of comfort her? 

“You know, I'm not afraid of you. Not anymore.” 

Sandor rasped, “Good. A damn waste of your time." He tipped the last of his wine into his mouth, then refilled his goblet. "Want more?" 

Sansa accepted, and Sandor tilted the flagon until wine all but spilled from the brim. She sipped the excess, welcoming the sour warmth into her belly. 

“I don't think you're a cruel man, either.” Smoke and flame licked the toes of her boots, but she didn’t budge. “I simply think you never learned to be kind.” 

“Hah. Kindness is shit.” 

“That’s not true.” Sansa rebuked. “Why lead any life but a kind one?”

“When you've had the life I’ve had, kindness makes you a dead man. I gave it up long ago...no need for it. The people I love are dead.” 

Love? Sandor had never mentioned love. 

Sansa tucked in her feet and rotated toward him. "A woman?" 

Could a man as off-putting as Sandor ever find a wife? A perpetual glower couched his chiseled features, made worse by the singed crust on his left. Though he had lived many long years before Sansa knew him, she couldn't imagine anyone piercing his steely demeanor and inducing softness from him. 

Sansa remembered briefly the shine in his eye the morning he rescued her, held her, any trace of enmity washed from his face. 

“No, little bird. My family." Sandor surrendered a halting breath, then continued, "He killed them all, one way or another.”

“Oh, I hadn't thought--” 

“No, you hadn't thought, little bird." His words were deliberate, but not harsh. "The world is not so kind as you’d like to think. No amount of prayer, no amount of tears, no amount of strength or bloodshed can prevent such cruel existence, but you wouldn’t know...you shouldn’t have to...no one should...” Sandor rambled to particular end, then drank. 

When his cup was empty, he tossed it into the grass and extended his hands to fire. It may have been a trick of the light, but they seemed to quiver, troubled by stories she did not yet know. Was he afraid? Did Gregor haunt him, a fiery ghost? 

Sandor had been left behind to suffer, too. 

“Who--who was in your family?” Sansa found her voice through a sudden tightness in her throat. 

“My father, my mother...” he sighed, “Gregor, and Margaery.” 

“A sister?” 

“Yes, seven years my younger. Doesn’t fucking matter. She's long dead. Didn’t live but five years.” 

“And you loved her?” 

The question fell into the dark, and Sansa became too familiar with the throb of her heart. She wished she could feel Sandor's heart, too, as she did in the saddle. 

His brows unstitched themselves, and he ceded to the flame. “Aye, I loved her. She wasn't afraid of me...the scars...somehow she didn’t…” Sandor made to raise his hand to his face but stopped. "It doesn't fucking matter. She's long dead." 

Sansa's chest hollowed; cool night air replaced her heart and breath. She felt nothing but the keen sting of loss, of family disappeared, never to return. How many people had Sandor lost? Who could he return home to? 

He dropped his hand to the stretch of blanket in between them. Flame flickered across his skin, and his raised scars turned to mountains and valleys in the firelight, mapping battles, triumph, defeat. Sansa reached out and scaled these ridges with her fingertips, exploring the rough terrain of his skin. 

She knew so little of Sandor, but she would learn. 

She settled her hand on his, a white blossom fallen to earth, her fingers open petals on his wide knuckles. 

Neither of them spoke. 

Sansa cast her eyes up to bask in the moonlight; she inhaled the cool starlight. A dry ocean of light blue grass swirled in the breeze around them, harmonizing with the distant river to sing a song of stillness, of untold vastness.

But Sansa’s world was small, illuminated by a chaotic blanket of orange light. She knew the warmth at her toes and the warmth under her palm. She wasn’t afraid. 

Sansa let her eyelids drop, content to listen to the more intimate song of breath and crackling flame. Her head fell heavy and found victorious rest on Sandor’s shoulder. Sleep came. 

Hours later, Sansa woke. She was somehow in her tent, alone. Sansa steadied her breath and listened for Sandor’s from beyond the canvas walls. 

He was there. She was safe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😳 what if we 😳 touched ankles 🧦 and 👐 held hands 👐 by the 🔥fire🔥?? 😳😳😳
> 
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor defends his little bird, again.
> 
> Chapter track: Agar Agar - I'm That Guy

### Sandor

Sandor was sore. The sleepless nights in winter cold had caught up to him. Every muscle complained as he moved, and he even when he sat still in the saddle, like now, the dormant ache made his limbs heavy as lead. 

But he couldn’t rest. Damn near everything agitated him. His scars smarted and bled. They ran low on food, so the hollow roar of hunger tormented his gut. Someone was watching them, too. He was certain. Sandor had spent enough time on the open road to know the feeling. His hair stood on end, sensitive to every turn of the breeze or rustle in the bushes. He clamped the reins, his fingers rigid and tense, itching to reach for the hilt of his sword at a moment’s notice. 

At best, it was merely another feckless broken man. Maybe the one from yesterday. An easy kill. 

Or perhaps it was more than one broken man, a whole band of broken men, more skilled, more blood thirsty. Want to take the girl and slice him to pieces. 

And what of Littlefinger? Would he send his men to collect her? 

They had better be close enough to the crossroads to avoid trouble. Sandor recognized some of their surroundings, and though endless rolling fields and barren trees made for poor landmarks, he figured they were less than a day’s ride. They should be at the inn by nightfall. He could ride through dark, if Stranger were fit to the task. 

Then he would be free. He would ride south; the little bird would fly north. 

Sandor grunted, and Sansa reflexively adjusted her seat, letting the supple swell of her buttocks settle against his thighs. 

_ Fuck this, _Sandor thought now and had oft repeated to himself over the past few days. Of all the worries he should have--warmth, shelter, sleep, food, a hot fucking bath, revenge--instead he worried for the damn girl. 

What had she done to him last night? What was that look in her eye? And what of her brash and biting affection? The cold sting of her touch lingered on his skin. Her inclement stare haunted him. After her fall, she spent the evening in poor spirits. She knew more darkness than Sandor realized, and yet she was so pliant, so inquisitive. What did she mean by all of it? 

Sandor couldn’t rest. If it wasn’t hunger that thrashed his guts, it was her, and the gentle scent of flowers that pervaded his air for hours on end. 

He wasn’t a good man, but he had enough years to still his blood and render himself impotent. 

Barely. 

There had been an incident just yesterday, when a stout wind pushed Sansa’s hood down and sent her loosely woven plaits lashing at Sandor’s chest. He gripped the reins so ferociously the buckles on the bridle threatened to burst, but it was all he could to stop himself from burying a hand, burying his entire fucking face in the soft flame of her hair. 

And when Sansa reached to replace her hood, she turned back, a knowing grin fixed on her small face. She must know. 

_ Fuck this. _

Sandor needed only to last another day, then it would be over. 

Late in the morning, a figure appeared down the road at a distance. Sandor narrowed his eyes and kept his hold on the reins light enough for him to draw steel, if need be. 

But there was no need. A boy astride a fat pony trotted harmlessly past them. He wore no armor, only wool, and a patchy cap covered his mousy mop of hair. He looked to be a farmer’s son, though he carried no tools and no obvious weapons, save for a knife at his hip. 

Sandor met the boy’s eye for a split second, and his burns flared under his helmet. 

_ It’s just a farmer’s son_, he assured himself, but his pulse raced and his face stayed hot long after the boy disappeared on the other side of the horizon. 

"Did you recognize him?" Sansa queried. 

"No, it was just a boy. Nothing to worry for."

"But you're tense." 

Of course she could tell.

Sandor cursed her girlish intuition and replied, "I'm not taking any chances. I just want to get to the crossroads in one piece." 

Sansa hemmed, but she didn't have an opportunity to press the matter: the sound of galloping hooves rang out behind them. Sandor kept his head forward and listened--at least two horses, strong ones. Definitely not the pony, but who? 

Didn't matter. He kicked Stranger to hurry him, but the stallion suffered the same hunger and soreness as Sandor, if not worse. Stranger struggled to reach an irregular gallop. 

"What is it?" Sansa whispered. 

"Don't know. I need you to stay calm, whatever it may be. Can you promise me that?"

"I--yes, I promise." 

"If it's trouble, you may have to take the reins." 

"Sandor--"

"If anything happens to me, you ride on. The inn won't be far. Don't stop 'til you get there." 

Sansa didn't make a sound, but Sandor knew her lip would be trembling, her eyes watery. He pulled the reins close and Sansa closer, then sent a futile kick to Stranger's ribs. 

The hoovesteps came close. Sandor chanced a look back--two well muscled coursers and men astride them ably stormed down the road. They had steel drawn, blades at the ready. One man was quite slender, the other much fatter, both wore crude leather armor and scant half-helms. 

More importantly, they carried no banners. Broken men. 

Sandor gripped his longsword and unsheathed it. His heart hammered against his ribs, but not uncomfortably. These men were no match. Sandor had fought and won petty battles all his life. Two cunts like these didn't stand a chance of unseating him. 

"Take hold, little bird." Sandor pressed the leather strap into Sansa's small hands and kept his spare hand locked over hers to still their shaking. 

The men were at Stranger's heels now. Though most likely stolen, their mounts were fast and well-fed, unbothered by their frenzied gallop. They split, one advanced to Stranger's right, the other to the left.

"What the fuck do you cunts want?" Sandor growled. "I'll fucking slice you to pieces if that's what your after." 

He reached for the axe he kept belted at his stallion's side, then slashed at the leg of the man on his left, the more slender one. Sandor nicked the horse's ribs instead; it whinnied and fell behind. 

"We just want the little lady, Ser." The fatter man flashed yellow teeth as he kept pace on Sandor's right. "Let us have her, and the stallion, and we'll let you go. How about that, eh?" 

Sandor roared and thrust his blade at the fat man's exposed underarm, but the man blocked in time and countered with a brazen lunge at Sandor's torso. He missed and urged his horse past Stranger. 

The thin man came close again, and Sandor took no chances. He dragged the axe across the man's thigh until he struck bone, then tugged. 

"Go back to the filth from whence you came and suck your mother's teats instead, cunt." 

Sandor withdrew his blade and blood spurted from the wound, readily soaking the man's breeches and saddle. He let out a yelp and swung his sword at Sandor's shoulder. It skimmed the flesh at Sandor's upper arm, tearing through layers of wool to break the skin, but hurt no worse than a bee sting. 

The man reared his horse forward, and Stranger fell back, slowed, and stopped. 

The two broken men circled and faced them. The thin man had gone quite pale and slumped in the saddle. The fat man scowled through a face full of whiskers and sucked his teeth. 

“Get out of the way, or I'll end you.” Sandor commanded. 

"Doesn't matter if I die," the wounded bandit cackled, "my friends will find you. We've been following you 'round the riverside. Such an odd pair…a beautiful maiden and a great big brute. You can’t hold onto her forever, or at the very least, you may as well share her.” 

The other man joined the boorish laughter. Sansa forced her shivering body against Sandor's chest, and his insides boiled with everything--blood, fire, and a new, profound greed. The little bird belonged to him and no one else. He would have to be cut down to chunks of meat and fed to wolves before giving her up, or worse, _sharing_ _her_.

But that wasn't going to happen. 

“Give us the fucking girl." This time the fat man spoke, in an unamused grumble. "And we let you live." 

Even through their facade of toughness, both of them together looked half an idiot in their ill-fitting leather breastplates and dented helms. Sandor was almost surprised they had blades sharp enough to cut wool. Were they truly that desperate for a woman? Seven fucking hells. 

Sandor lowered his head and whispered to Sansa, "If anything happens, ride on, little bird." 

Then, he straightened, adjusted his grip on the axe, and chucked it directly at the fat man's neck. 

It stuck. 

Blood bubbled from his mouth and rushed down his tunic. The skinny man's horse spooked at the sight, whinnying and crying, but its rider had lost too much blood to get it under control. Neither of them rode away. 

"Fuck this," Sandor rasped as he swung from the saddle and dropped to the gravel road. He charged towards the fat man.

"Fuck your friends." Sandor wrested the handle of the axe from the man's neck and released a crimson deluge, but he didn't falter. He slashed the man's foot clean off in one swipe, cast the axe aside, then lifted him from the saddle by his socketed red neck. Slick, hot blood coated Sandor's glove and rolled down his sleeves, but he didn't care. 

He dropped him into the road. The man's eyes rolled up into his skull, where they would remain until carrion came to pluck them out. Sandor exercised mercy. He sunk his sword through leather and bone to the man's heart--a quick death. An easy death. He twitched and a fresh spurt of blood crested his lips, then it was done. He lay perfectly still. 

"Fuck you, cunt."

Sandor turned his attention to the thinner of two, his pulse loud in his ears, singing its victory. The horse had calmed, and at Sandor's approach, the man jerked the reins and coaxed his courser into a swift trot. 

"We'll find you--you won't last long out here," the man sputtered as he rode back in the direction they had come. But he held both the reins and his blade in slack grip, muscles drained, unable to hold shape. He wouldn't last half a day with his leg fucked up like that. 

Fuck him. 

Sandor let him ride on, and he let the dead man's horse follow. He didn't want their shitty mount, and he wouldn't be caught--they'd ride until they reached the fucking inn. 

Sansa quivered in the saddle, the reins clenched in her delicate white hands. Sandor could only hope that she wouldn't be as frightened as yesterday, or the day before that, or the day before that. Fuck. 

He sheathed his filthy blade and paced back to Stranger. As his heart calmed, needle-like pain replaced the vigor in his muscles, so he hoisted himself onto the saddle with concerted strength and collapsed onto Stranger's back. 

"Fuck," he grumbled as he reared the courser into a hasty trot. He didn't want to burden Stranger, but they needed to ride hard and fast. 

When he had put some distance between themselves and the corpse in the road, Sandor looked down to the top of Sansa's hood and asked, “Are you alright, little bird?” 

“Yes, I--I just want to be home," she whispered. 

Sandor listened for any tears, but heard none. He said mute prayer of thanks to the Gods, whichever one prevented maidens' crying. He couldn't stand the sound of it. 

“I’m going to try to get us to the inn tonight. They’ll have a fire going, and hot food.” Sandor attempted reassurance, but dark clouds blotted out the late afternoon sun, and Stranger lagged. 

“But Sandor, you were hurt,” Sansa half-whined. “Shouldn't we--”

“Don’t worry about that. We only need to worry about getting to the inn.”

Sandor had almost forgotten about the damn cut. Still, as the afterglow of combat faded, the acute sting of winter air on his exposed flesh made itself known. He looked down to his left arm, where bright red and dry brown blood painted wool. It wasn't so bad. A few inches long and deep enough to ruin his fucking tunic, but he'd seen worse. 

Sansa sighed and murmured something to the distant grasses. 

"What's that?" Sandor asked, annoyed at his interest in the girl's every word. 

She rotated her face to reveal her elegant profile, then repeated with her eyes to the ground, "I said I'm worried." Another sigh, then she continued, "But you fought very bravely Sandor, so thank you. Let's just ride on." 

Sandor grunted in reply. Fought bravely? Did she mean to compliment him or deride him?

It didn't matter. He just needed to compel his horse to trudge through the monotonous brown sea, 'til all three of them toppled from exhaustion. 

They rode for a few hours more, but the dark sun disappeared behind darker clouds, then slipped under the horizon. The clouds blocked most starlight and left only the blurred silhouette of the moon to guide them down the road. Sandor strained to see even a few yards ahead of them, but he drove Stranger forward, slowly. 

The cold burrowed under his cloak and skin and turned his muscles to ice. They ached. Just as Sandor wondered if it could get any worse, snow began to fall. The sky filled with tiny, weightless crystals that seemed to float rather than drop, but they accumulated in the grass, on the gravel road, and onto Sandor and Sansa's cloaks. 

“Sandor, the snow--” 

“I can see it.” Sandor interrupted. 

“Do you--should we keep going? What if it worsens?” 

“I don’t know, little bird.” He didn't fucking have the answers. Camping in the snow would be miserable, but better to have camp set before it worsens, if it worsens. 

“Do you think those men are coming back for us? For me?” 

“They’re not fucking coming back. They’re liars.” Sandor’s voice was louder, harsher. He wouldn't let those cunts lay a single finger on the girl. “No, we just need to get to the inn.” 

“How far?” 

“I don’t know. I know we’re close, but it’s impossible to recognize anything in the fucking snow.” He didn't intend to speak so loudly, but he couldn't think beyond the knot of hunger in his gut, the ice in his muscle, and the hot trickle of blood on his arm. 

Worst of all, Stranger slowed.

No, worst of all, the flakes thickened and spewed onto the road and open fields. They melted on Sandor's skin and seeped into his cloak, so cold that it burned. 

“Fuck,” Sandor grumbled.

“Sandor--”

“I know, I can fucking see it.” 

“Sandor," she began again, meekly. "I’m hungry. Please don’t be mad.” 

“I’m not--” Sandor forced all his air through his nose, then said, “We’re low on food. I have barely one meal more for each of us.” 

“We should stop.”

The girl was right. Better to set camp before they had to dig through snow. He had camped in worse weather, wetter weather, and he had camped hungrier, bloodier. 

But he didn't want Sansa to suffer. She wouldn't be able to endure the cold half as well. Even now, she shivered in her seat and leaned into Sandor's chest. She had taken to settling close, and for what? To steal his warmth? 

Fuck, it wasn't the time. 

He needed to find some sort of shelter if they wanted to survive. Dense flakes shrouded the already dark outlines of distant trees and shrubs. If they strayed from the road they'd find woods eventually, but they could get lost, stumble into trouble. He might have to risk it. His eyes weren't as sharp as they used to be; he couldn't discern a single fucking branch. 

“There!” Sansa shouted, pointing to an obscure hillside and--

Trees. She had spotted a patch of trees. 

Sandor directed Stranger off the road through the frozen swell of grass. The stallion plodded on unsteady hooves, but they reached the thicket after another few cold minutes and found a sizable clearing, mostly dry. 

The sky belched fat flakes but the bare branches suspended the snow high above them. In dull moonlight Sandor could see only the speckled white ground, the outlines of trees, and the little bird. It would do. 

His dismount rattled his already aching joints, but he found footing and extended a hand to Sansa. She descended gracefully, as usual, a delicate hand perched on her skirts just-so. She dusted the snow from her cloak and swept her eyes over him. 

“Sandor, your arm--” Sansa reached up to the gaping, bloodied tear on his tunic, but Sandor recoiled before she could make contact. 

“No,” Sandor removed his helm and tossed it to the white ground beside Stranger, “not now.” 

“But it needs tending, it could become inflamed, it could fester--” 

“I said no. Start gathering wood, anything that looks dry. We need to get a fire going if we are to last the night. And don’t fucking wander.” He held her stare, waiting for a complaint, but she nodded and set off without so much as a sigh. 

In the dim blue light, Sandor set up camp. He brushed away the thin layer of snow on a level patch of grass, then nestled the tent on top. As an added measure of protection, he strung leather cord at the corners of one of the larger woolen blankets then tied it to four surrounding trees, reaching as high as his arms would allow. If they were lucky, the blanket would keep snow from collapsing the tent and putting out the fire. 

Gods, it was all fire in winter, so much fucking fire, and no sun. Sandor was no stranger to winter camping, but it was always rather unpleasant. Nothing to do but commiserate round the fire, and damn near no one made good company in the cold. 

“Will these do?” Sansa stepped underneath their makeshift shelter with an armful of logs. Snowflakes rested on her eyelashes, and her breath swirled in the air, sweet and warm. 

Sandor nodded, his blood suddenly hot, everywhere. 

“Set them here,” he pointed to his left, “then get more.” 

She turned away, and Sandor fixed the wood into a serviceable pile. He struck flint on a bundle of dry grass and fire caught, Seven be good. Bright orange flame pushed away the snowstorm blue and thrust immediate heat to Sandor's worn body. He thawed his stiff fingers for a moment, then went to fetch their bags. 

Stranger idled closeby, recovering from their stressful afternoon. Sandor dropped a blanket over the stallion's back with quick pat on the muzzle, then he took up the remaining supplies. He had only just settled onto a cloak and put a pot on the flames when Sansa returned. She ducked underneath the shelter and dropped an impressive bundle of wood beside them. 

“Come, sit,” Sandor offered as he threw a few handfuls of snow and a meager stash of winter wheat into the pot. "Thank you for gathering wood, little bird." 

"Of course," she replied, gathering her skirts and kneeling on his left.

Sansa glowed by the nascent light of the fire. Her cheeks and nose flushed red; her damp plaits spilled out from her cloak and shone, a mirror of flame. She extended her small palms, then caught Sandor's eye. 

Fuck, he needed wine, but they finished it off last night. Nothing warmed and obliterated the spirit so keenly as a fine strongwine. If they survived the night, he'd drink himself to oblivion at the inn. If he drank enough, maybe he'd forget the girl. 

Wouldn't that be nice. 

She sat quietly alongside him while the grains cooked. Her eyelids drooped over her usually wide eyes, and she rested her head in her hands, observing the fire. Sandor tried to ignore the uneasiness in his stomach, but failed. He could think only of Sansa. He had done a piss poor job as an escort. She had nearly been taken on how many occasions? And now she sat starving and freezing, most likely wondering how soon she could be rid of him. 

He would be glad to see her in the care of her family, at the very least. Would she still think of him when she was safe at home? 

Sandor swallowed back bile. Gods, what he wouldn't give to be back in his keep already, alone. 

When the grains swelled and burst, Sandor stirred in a scoop of lard and sprinkled them with salt. He offered the largest portion to Sansa, took a smaller portion for himself, and saved the rest for Stranger. If they didn't get to the crossroads by tomorrow night, he'd be hunting, and Sansa would have to forage, if she even knew how.

Sandor finished his dinner in five eager spoonfuls. The grain dropped hot into his belly and mellowed the ache, somewhat. Meanwhile, Sansa pecked at her meal, nearly taking each seed as its own bite. Her cautious manners irked Sandor, always, but they were no farce. Her worry made her slow to eat. 

He wished he didn't know this, but he spent far too much time watching her sort through her food with vacant eyes, her mind somewhere far away. 

“Sandor?” She queried. 

Sandor met her eye but didn't answer, loath to hear his name on her lips and learn where her mind had been. 

Sansa continued, “We need to tend your cut. Please.” 

She set aside her bowl and leaned over their bags. She dug through them until she retrieved the torn linen tunic. "Perfect," she hummed, then moved back to Sandor's side. "May I?"

"Little bird, I don't…" he couldn't find words for a refusal. The very idea of her hands on his skin sent fire up his spine and onto his face. 

But Sansa didn't wait for him to finish; she shuffled closer, planted her knees against the outside of Sandor's thigh, and lifted her fingers to his soiled cloak. Sandor flinched and pulled his arm away. 

"What's the matter? You'll need help with it. It's on the back of your arm." Her eyes had gone wide and settled on the wrong side of his face. They were blue, even by firelight. "Please...say something.” 

“Just leave it be," Sandor muttered. "You’ll not like the sight of it. I wouldn’t want you getting faint or what have you.” 

“Oh, never mind that. I'll be quick. It’s for your own good, and besides, you treated my cuts. I haven’t forgotten.” 

Sandor's gaze lept back to her. She had never mentioned that morning in so many words. 

He exhaled, "Do what you will. Just be warned, it’s not pretty.” 

"I'll be fine, I swear it." 

Sandor couldn't tell if she meant to convince herself or him more, but it didn't matter. She peeled back his cloak, then ripped his tunic with a careful touch to reveal the entirety of the cut. 

"Oh," she gasped, quietly. 

The cut ran deeper and longer than Sandor suspected, but the bleeding had stopped. A thick dark crust covered the wound and his surrounding skin. Sansa reached for a handful of snow just outside their shelter, then blotted out the black blood with feather white flakes. 

Sandor grimaced. The fucking cold, he never cared about cold, but it stung tonight, under Sansa's light touch. He didn't deserve the care of a noble maiden, Seven hells. 

"Is that alright?" 

"Aye. Just--just keep going." 

Sansa applied delicate pressure with her fingertips to melt the snow on his wound and wiped away the water and blood with a scrap of linen. She paused to examine the cut, unblinking, then pulled a fresh bandage through his tunic and wrapped it around his arm. 

When Sansa finished tying a knot, she gave the bandage a satisfied pat. "I think that should do for now, though you’ll be needing a new tunic.”

“Doesn’t matter, little bird. We should be in town tomorrow. If I'm lucky they’ll spare me a shirt.” 

Sansa sighed, “I should like a proper bed. And a hot bath.” 

She looked down to where her hands lay folded in her lap and stayed at his side. The bony points of her knees dug into Sandor's already sore leg, but he couldn't bring himself to pull away, it seemed to great an effort, like moving stone. 

Sandor dropped a thick log into the embers, and fresh flame washed over them. Sansa's braids glimmered from the ends tied with rags to the crown of her head, where stray curls swirled like rogue embers in the dark night. 

Sansa met his eye and offered a half-smile. Oh, it made his guts hurt. 

“Thank you for taking me all this way.”

Sandor almost swiped his scars, but instead he dragged his fist to mouth and cleared his throat. "Don’t mention it. You’ll be rid of me soon enough." 

“I think I shall miss you.” Sansa cooed. “I don’t know if anyone is as good at protecting me.” 

She slid her fingers atop his thigh and rested them there, pinning Sandor to the ground as though she had four times the strength. Fire found his face then, white hot. Or perhaps white hot blood circulated his entire body, so hot it was near cold, thick ice in his veins. 

“I hope you find your brother, too." She watched her hand, alternately pressing each fingertip into him like small, white daggers. “And I hope you get your keep. I could even tell Bran to give it to you, I'm sure he would. Then maybe you wouldn't even need to fight.” 

“Spare me your compliments, little bird. You don’t need to worry for me. ” 

“Oh Sandor, you’re not half as cruel as you may think yourself to be." Sansa sighed, her eyes downcast. "But I suppose it doesn't matter what I think, if I'm just an empty headed maiden.”

Empty headed? Had he--could he have possibly said as much to her, when he was drunk? Spoken aloud the venomous sentiment that lurked in his shit mind? 

Fuck. 

Oh, her innocence yielded ignorance, certainly. But it was genuine. She meant well, even when her queries whittled his defenses to nothing. 

Sandor forced himself to look over the fire, to the white woods beyond. The snow had slowed and aimless flakes filtered through the canopy to lay gently on earth below. They would be spared the worst of winter tonight, thankfully. 

“It's so odd," Sansa began, her speech directed to the ruined side of his face, "I’m not afraid, not like I was before. Your scars--they just--they don’t make you a monster.” 

Sandor couldn’t resist; a mangled laugh erupted from his sour gut. Oh, a perfect observation, blind innocence indeed. How fucking unbearable. Why was she always on about this shit? She hadn't even a drop of wine. 

“I don’t care if you mock me, either, Sandor. I don’t have it in my heart to be afraid when you’ve only done me kindness.” 

Sansa removed her hand and sat back, drawing her knees into her arms. Her silence was deafening, the absence of her touch, of her overbearing delicacy, was hell. The fire crackled before them, an empty, inescapable comfort. 

He came to and grumbled, “I would never expect you to say such things of me, so you may forgive my surprise, little bird. I don’t know how you can think so favorably, after everything." 

“It's all I can do,” Sansa breathed. A shiver worked its way through her body, and she braced against an invasive breeze. “I suppose I should probably rest.”

Sansa stood and wound her cloak tight around herself. She lingered, a weary gaze on Sandor, her jaw quivering. The burden was mutual, it seemed. He tolerated her naive wiles; she bore his cruelty, his ugliness. She said she wasn't afraid, but she beheld him so distantly, her eyes two frozen lakes, fathoms deep. What dwelled under their dark blue surface? What insipid questions never found air? 

“Will you be alright? I mean, out here, in the cold?” Sansa’s soft voice cut through his roving thoughts. “If it gets too bad, you could sleep in the--” 

“No--" Sandor rebuffed, quick. "I'm fine. You go on. I have the fire.” 

“Very well. Good night, then.” She lowered a hand to his shoulder in parting, but Sandor couldn't bring himself to look up.

"Good night," he told the fire. 

But she already pushed through the opening of the tent and sealed herself inside. She rifled through the pile of wool blankets, sighed, then fell quiet. 

_ It's all I can do_, she had said, and what did she mean by it? That she willed herself to look well upon him in the absence of a better choice? 

Fuck, probably. 

And yet her courtesy had worn him down. He derived sick relief from her unsolicited touch and dubious stare, and he worried that he might miss her too. But they'd spend the rest of their lives apart in distant corners of the kingdom. These were their last shared hours. 

Sandor attempted sleep, but only partially dozed roughout the night. He laid facing the fire, two thick layers of wool wrapped around himself. His ears perked at every noise, but tonight snow muffled most sound except the unconscious whispers that drifted from the tent behind him. 

Sandor had grown accustomed to Sansa’s murmuring in the night. He wasn’t sure if she knew of its regularity herself, but almost as soon as she fell asleep, she would call out. Mostly Sansa spoke names: Joffrey, Tyrion, Sweetrobin, mother, father, and Arya were the most common. 

Sometimes she would scream, for Littlefinger. 

And she did that night. 

“Don’t,” she cried. “Not there, you won’t force me.” 

And then, a whimper. “Be gentle. Be quick, please.” 

Sandor barely slept. 

He woke, stiff and cold, to the sharp sensation of a blade poking his ribcage. He started and looked up through bleary eyes to see who was on the other end of the sword--a queer blade, too thin to be held by any Western knight. 

“Where is she.” The voice leveled a calm demand. Sandor’s eyes focused. The intruder was just a boy, medium height and build, long of face, with short brown hair. 

“I said, where is she.” The boy gave Sandor a kick in the leg. The cold made him slow to react; he didn’t even consider reaching for his own sword at his hip. He met the boy’s eye--nothing to fear about someone so small. 

But he knew this boy, Sandor realized, and it was no boy. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Sandor reach the inn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy, and let me be the first to welcome you to my wild and wacky world of Westeros. Tryin' my best to sew up GRRM's loose ends. 
> 
> This chapter has some major set up for the rest of my story, so enjoy the mellowness while it lasts! 
> 
> 😇

### Sansa

Sansa fell asleep thinking of blood and fire. She pictured the torn thigh. She pictured the axe, over and over, landing in the man's neck with a thud and a crunch. She pictured the crimson fountain when Sandor took it back. 

It should have frightened her. 

But she found herself wondering how Sandor could aim such a perfect throw, and how he could lift a man of so great a size as though he were filled with smoke. They wanted to take her, and he wouldn't let them. So he spilled their blood. 

And then there was Sandor's blood: black in the night, sogged through layers of cold wool. It melted away under the snow and left behind knotted muscle. Sansa liked the warmth of his skin. It rippled like flame on her fingertips. 

She pictured that heat as she drifted to sleep: the press of his chest on her back, arms wrapped close around her, and his heartbeat, steady, unwavering. Strong enough to keep away anyone who dare hurt her. She wouldn't mind his company at her side, in the tent. She didn't even care about the impropriety of it all. She cared only about warmth. 

She fell asleep safe, shrouded in the ghost of his embrace. 

She woke to the sound of muffled voices.

Dim morning light poked through the canvas as Sansa roused herself. She couldn't see any shapes beyond the walls of fabric, and her pulse thudded too loudly in her ears for her to make out their words. She sat up, pulled the covers to her chin, and listened. 

“I said, where is she.” The stranger. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sandor’s voice, a throaty grumble. 

“Liar. Get out of the way, Hound.” 

This stranger knew Sandor as the Hound. Sansa bit her lip, sick of strangers, sick of being chased around the riverlands. 

The opening of the tent flew open, inundating Sansa with frosty air. Her eyes prickled and blurred at the dark figure before her: a young boy, perhaps younger than her. She shifted deeper into the tent, shivering, teeth clattering, until she could go no further. She raised a timid eye to the stranger.

It was no stranger. 

“Arya?” Sansa croaked in a lame whisper. 

Her little sister, yes, it was her. She crouched outside the tent, a short crop of brown hair on her head, her limbs longer and sinewy. But she had the same wild grey eyes with the same mischievous glint. 

"Sansa," Arya grinned. 

"Arya," Sansa repeated, her voice broken and wet. She bounded from the tent, stumbling over her blankets and out onto the frosty ground, then scooped Arya up in her arms. They were of equal height now, so Sansa buried her face in her sister's shoulder and let her cloak catch her hot tears.

"Arya," she breathed into wool. "Oh, Arya." 

She couldn't stop herself. Her shoulders shook, her chest heaved, and she sobbed. 

"Sansa…Sansa…you're alright…" Arya placed a single pat on Sansa's back, then freed herself from Sansa's embrace. 

"I'm so sorry, Arya…I'm so glad...but I'm so sorry." She dabbed at her tears with her velvet sleeve but couldn't collect them fast enough. Arya's long face remained a blurry outline. 

"Sorry? For what?" 

"For...for everything. My last words to you…I let you disappear," she sucked in a feeble breath. "I've missed you so much." 

"Oh, come now, it's not your fault. I'm alive. I'm here. " Arya lifted the hem of her cloak and dragged the rough wool over Sansa's wet cheeks. "That's better, eh?" She titled Sansa's chin to find her eye, then grinned. 

Sansa smiled back, a watery smile. 

Arya was alive, and Arya had grown. Her brows were bushier, her cheekbones higher, and there were creases at her brow and lips. She wore boy's clothes--a modest tunic, jerkin, and breeches--but hadn't she always been more like a boy? She wore a sword, too. A skinny little thing. 

"Where have you been?" Sansa smoothed her thumb over Arya's cheek. "How did you find me?" 

"Well..." Arya paused and glanced beyond Sansa, into the woods. "I've been tracking you. For a couple of days now. I was tracking those broken men first, we’re trying to rid the area of them. But I saw--it was the horse,” Arya gestured to where both Sandor and Stranger stood. ''I recognized it. So I followed you. I saw you yesterday, before those men tried to attack, and I knew it was you, Sansa.”

“How did you--I didn't see--” 

“It doesn't matter, sister. But how did you end up with _ him?” _

Sansa turned to watch Sandor. 

Something hard and heavy, a stone perhaps, sunk in her stomach. She groped for words. “I--it was my choice, Arya. He’s escorting me. I ended up on the Quiet Isle, the one with the septry. He was there and he volunteered to take me home.” He guided her bravely through the riverlands, fought back foes, built her fires, and held her close. 

Sansa breathed. Was this to be her story? 

“I thought for sure he would be dead. Seven hells," Arya muttered. "Come back to save the lost princess, I suppose.” 

Sandor brushed past them, and Sansa fell back a step, putting too much weight on her sore ankle. Any hint of a smile faded from her lips.

"If you two are well and good, I'll be on my way," Sandor said as he reached for the length of wool fixed to trees. He cut the leather cord from each trunk, tossed the cloth aside, and set to work on dismantling the tent. 

"Arya--I--" Sansa started. 

"Where are you going, then?" Arya spoke to Sandor, a dubious brow cocked. He cast a lazy look at the newcomer and fumbled wordlessly with wooden stakes stuck in snowy earth. 

“I thought we were going to the inn.” Sansa answered for both of them. “At the crossroads. The Elder Brother, he told us there were friends there.” 

"The inn?" Arya laughed, incredulous. "Sansa, I live there. At least for now, while I help sort out the Trident." 

Sansa's mouth fell open--a maiden, a princess, in boy's clothes, living at an inn, hunting criminals? It couldn't be. 

But the sword at her hip and the circles under her eyes confirmed her tale. 

"You're not lying, are you?" Sansa's voice was small. 

“Oh, things are so different now, sister." Arya shook her head, annoyingly wise. "This area isn’t as bad anymore, but I figure the butchery down the road was the Hound’s handiwork. The broken men can be real cunts.” 

Two sets of narrowed eyes landed on Arya at once. 

Arya shrugged, "Well, they are. No matter--let's get you to the inn. I'm through being in the snow. What's with the dagger? Learning to fight?" She gave the scabbard a capricious tug. "And your gown, Seven hells."

"Oh, Sandor was teaching me, so I could--but I haven't--and I--I fell. In the river." Sansa looked down to her pale brown and barely green skirts, the hem wet and dark three inches up. "I don't have another. It's been... " she sighed. "I just want to be home. Or at the very least, I'd like a hot bath and clean dress." 

"What about him?" Arya thrust her thumb toward Sandor. He strapped their bags to Stranger's side, then mounted. 

Without her.

A rush of blood filled Sansa's cheeks. "Oh, I don't--he only needed to--" 

"Oy, Hound." Arya called, her chin held high. "Will you join us at the inn?" 

Sandor leveled a dark stare and urged Stranger forward. He spat down, "Seven hells, boy. The Hound is dead. Don't you fucking remember?" 

Sansa's mouth formed a silent oh. How could he be so rude? Their brother was king, after all. But Arya only laughed. 

"Oh, I remember well enough. What shall I call you then? Brother? Seems you forgot your robes...and I don't remember holy men being much for bloodshed." 

"Hah. Still have that smart mouth, I see." Sandor flashed a macabre grin. "Sure, I'll join you. If you can promise me a room of my own and ample wine. And new fucking shirt." He shifted to display the tattered sleeve of his tunic, deep brown and torn to reveal the bandage underneath. It looked worse in the daylight. 

Sandor didn't wait for an answer. He jerked the reins and steered Stranger through the snow laden trees. 

"Please, don't let us hold you up," Arya taunted as he disappeared behind the hillside. She turned back to Sansa and shrugged, "Are you ready then?"

Sansa nodded. 

“Well, you can take Goat,” Arya pointed to where a sturdy speckled pony grazed on snowy grasses, “and I'll walk with you. He's no kingly courser, but he's as fine a mount as any with only a few miles ahead of us.”

Sansa's stomach turned, and she almost thought she would be sick, but instead, a giggle burst from her lips. She attempted to stifle it with a hand to her mouth but failed. 

How was she here, with her sister, alive? And Arya, where had she been this entire time? Was she truly a few miles away from a fresh cooked meal and a roaring hearth? 

She felt giddy. Her heart floated to the sky. Nothing mattered, her worries went away with her heart, and yet everything mattered, family, food, home. She had a place. She would ride alongside her sister somewhere safe and warm. 

And Sandor, well, he would be close. At least for one more night. 

\--

Arya led on foot through the open frosty fields, a blue sky above them, the clouds transformed from brooding giants to mere wisps. The bald sun swathed the land in long light, and every drop of snow sparkled and sang a quiet song, a brilliant song. How could Sansa have forgotten the beauty of winter? 

Sansa drifted through the morning with her sister. An endless stream of questions fell from her lips, and Arya indulged her curiosity gladly. Her sister had been across the sea. Learned to fight, to kill without being caught, and to disappear. But she returned. 

Arya fought for Bran's throne. She fought against the Lannisters, but that was an easy fight, and then she fought against the dragon queen. Arya had seen a dragon; Jon and Bran slayed it. 

Bran was a skinchanger. He earned the throne through animal eyes. All these years, he trained with the children of the forest, learned ancient wisdom of greensight, and became a boy king with broken legs. 

He was a fair king, Arya said. 

Bran gave her leave to do as she pleased. She chose to find those men who did her wrong in those first dismal months and purge them, one by one. Arya lived freely. She lived as a princeling. 

And Sansa had married an imp. Conspired against a false king, unwittingly. She wandered lonely halls high in the clouds, for years on end, a flightless bird in a beautiful cage. She tended to Sweetrobin. She danced a precarious dance with a man more dangerous than anyone knew. A man who killed her aunt and stole the Vale. A man who smelled sickly sweet like rotten fruit, and came too close too often. A man who wouldn't let her go. _ Unless_.

Sansa didn't divulge the _ unless_. She deflected with more questions and more menial talk. Arya told her of the inn. The Heddles, Jeyne and Willow, and a band of warmade orphans ran it. Her friend Gendry lived there, too. He built things. He made Arya blush, Sansa noticed. 

When silence fell between her and her sister, she squinted to keep watch of Sandor, who rode some distance ahead of them. 

He would journey south too soon. Sansa would miss his protection, the indomitable shield his height and heat. Their time together was finite, borrowed from Seven, and near nothing could bind a swordsman to a princess for any length of time. 

He could be her guard, perhaps. If Gregor was dead, if Sansa pardoned Sandor herself, would he agree to travel north instead? Could she demand if of him? 

If he served as her sworn shield, he could never leave her side. 

Sansa shuddered and drew up her cloak, but she didn't take her eye from the broad-shouldered silhouette on the horizon. 

By mid-afternoon, the snow wilted, and sleepy signs of human settlement made themselves known. Simple earthen hovels with round doors and smoking chimneys dotted the hillside alongside rudimentary pig pens and chicken coops. A peasant with a cart full of sheepskins joined the road and surpassed them, with a familiar nod to Arya and a skeptical peek at Sansa. 

“Won't be long now,” Arya chimed. “We'll get you a bath as soon as we get there. You _ reek. _"

Sansa chafed, "I don't reek. I washed up yesterday. And Sandor didn't mention…" 

Arya shook her head, and Sansa fell silent, her cheeks red. Oh, she hoped Sandor hadn't suffered for her stench. Soon he wouldn't suffer her at all. 

Distant huts gave way to stone cottages perched on the road's edge. More peasants scurried about, tending to their livestock and throwing discreet glances to Sansa. She caught as many as she could and returned a smile. Did they know her yet? Did they recognize their princess? 

They crested another hillside, and down below the King's Road cut through the town, wide enough for ten men abreast and their horses to pass comfortably. In the dramatic winter light the gravel twinkled like gold. 

_ The road home_, Sansa thought. Her heart swelled. 

Tucked just beyond the mighty intersection, the inn stood three stories tall with a heavy wooden sign jutting from its grey facade. Bright patches of stone filled holes that once crumbled; dark moss and lichen blanketed the rest. The thatch roof was yellow and new, made impenetrable from the winter cold. Nary a drop of water would fall on her head tonight. 

Her smile stayed wide and unwavering as they crossed the King's Road and approached the inn. Sandor guided Stranger to the adjacent stable, and Sansa turned her attention to the front door. A girl around her age and a half dozen smaller but similarly weary faces poked from the halfway ajar entry. Their expressions brightened when they noticed Arya. 

"You're back," the eldest called, taking two measured steps out from the threshold of the inn, all the children tucked in her skirts. "I'm so glad." 

Arya steadied the pony, and Sansa eased from his low-lying back onto the damp grasses. She treated her gown delicately, as though it was freshly laundered, and she gave her face no rest from its smile. 

"Jeyne, I've found her." Arya called, beckoning Sansa close. "This is Sansa. Sansa, this is Jeyne Heddle, and some of the kids, too." 

Sansa stepped forward and folded into a curtsy, then found Jeyne's eye. She was a skinny girl, skinnier than Sansa or Arya. A collection of bony points protruded from her muted wool gown, and her long mousy hair fell lank over sunken eyes and prominent cheekbones. 

"It's a pleasure," Jeyne greeted, though her mouth didn't move from a straight line, and her eyes stayed dull. "Everyone's been so worried for you." 

"It's the lost princess!" A tiny voice sounded from Jeyne's side. She promptly hushed them. 

Arya grinned and answered, "Yes, she was hiding in the Vale, but she's come back now, and she's going to stay with us for now." 

"We'll take good care of you, princess," Jeyne assured, but the line of her mouth curled downward. She brought a skeletal hand to the hilt of a dagger at her hip. "And who's this?" 

Sansa followed the innkeeper's dubious gaze. 

Sandor had returned. His hair hung in loose black strings over his open scars, and the left sleeve of his bloodied tunic flapped in the breeze, exposing bandaged flesh underneath. He looked more haggard than Sansa remembered, and he had a staunch scowl to match. 

Sansa's joints wobbled like jam, but she recovered her stance and offered a weak smile to Sandor. He returned nothing. How could she possibly vouch for his presence?

“It’s the H--he’s Sandor Clegane." Arya replied on her behalf. "He escorted my sister here. He’s staying too.” 

Jeyne nodded, "As you wish. Ben," she pried a boy with curly red hair from her side by his shoulders. "You help this...Sandor to his room." 

The boy hesitated and Jeyne gave him a rough shove as Sandor stormed past. He left behind a faint trail of warmth and spice, which Sansa inhaled deeply before he disappeared into the inn. 

Jeyne knelt to face another red-haired orphan. "Tansy, you take Lady Sansa to her room. The upstairs room. Have Pate bring up the tub and hot water, fast."

The girl nodded and shuffled to face Sansa. She could be no more than six or seven years old; two slender plaits fell past her round face to the bodice of a oat-colored gown. She lifted her eyes and opened a shy, toothy grin. 

"Will you come with me, Lady Sansa?" 

"Of course," Sansa hummed. She took Tansy's sticky palm in her own and squeezed. "I would be delighted."

"Leave her your dress and we'll have it laundered." Jeyne offered, then to the children she added, "How about we make a nice supper tonight to celebrate? 'Tisn't every day we recover the lost princess." 

A swell of excited whispers broke out and the children gaped eagerly Sansa, some with wide smiles, others with shining eyes. 

"Oh, thank you kindly," She demurred, blushing. Had she truly been missed so? 

"This way, Lady Sansa," Tansy gave her hand an impatient tug. 

Sansa giggled, then waved goodbye to her sister and the others before ducking into the warm and dry shelter beyond. 

"Upstairs is the nice room with the featherbed," Tansy babbled. "Only the most special guests can stay there, but you're special because you're a princess. Arya used to be a princess but she says she doesn't care. She fights the broken men that want to hurt us. Did you see her sword?" 

The girl pushed her pudgy cheeks up into an expectant grin. 

Sansa grinned back. "I did see her sword. She's very brave." 

"Yes, she's the bravest in the entire realm. None of the bad men have come in a really long time, except why did you come with the big ugly man? Why was he bleeding?" 

"Oh--" Sansa blanched at Tansy's callow inquiry. "His name is Sandor. He's not--he got hurt protecting me. He's brave too. He's not one of the bad men." 

Tansy hummed and pulled Sansa up a spiral stairwell. Sansa tried to still her breath but failed. She had arrived, somewhere. Somewhere warm with smiling faces, sturdy walls, hot water, and hot food. But she wouldn't be long. She needed to assemble an escort north, with Arya's help. She needed to go home.

For now, however, a bath would do. 

The upstairs room was plain but splendid after so many nights on the open road. Old oak floors and oak-clad walls, all sheathed in frayed tapestries, enclosed a heavy bed frame, washstand, mirror, and wardrobe. A brown bear skin run covered the worn floorboards, and a matching fur laid atop the feather mattress. Best of all, a fire raged in the hearth, so hot a fine sweat misted Sansa's forehead. 

She didn't mind. She shed her boots, cloak, and dagger, then fell onto the bed. 

As requested, Pate lugged up a large wooden tub. Sansa loitered with Tansy, who chattered on about the happenings of the inn, while Pate and a handful of other orphans paraded into the room hauling vessels full of steaming water. Some had pots, some pitchers, others had tankards and bowls, but they all dumped their spoils into the tub and returned with more, stealing glances at Sansa as they worked. 

When they finished, Sansa dismissed them, but not before offering each child a courteous kiss on the cheek. Pate, the oldest amongst them, blushed deep crimson and stared with bewildered eyes. 

"W-will you come to dinner?" He stammered, his voice an adolescent bray. "There's a traveling lute player in town--he sings every night--and Jon is cooking our last leg of beef." 

"Of course I shall come," Sansa returned. "I haven't had a true meal in a quarter moon. 'Til then." 

She waved them away with a smile, but Tansy lagged behind. 

"I need your dress, Lady Sansa. It's dirty." She pointed to Sansa's skirts, as though the stink and look of swamp came as a surprise. 

"Oh, I suppose--" Sansa's eyes moved around the room, searching for a folding screen or a robe, but she knew it was futile. She had a mere child for a handmaid and no will to be prudish, so she loosened her bodice and let her dingy gown drop to the floor. 

"Here." Sansa pressed the bundled velvet into Tansy's hands, but the girl wouldn’t budge. Her small mouth dropped open. 

“You were hurt!” She exclaimed. 

Oh, the bandage. It was a sorry sight after so many days in the riverlands, grey with dirt and stained with her blood. 

“I’m quite fine, sweetling. Sandor saved me from a bad man.” Sansa guided Tansy to the door with a hand on her shoulder. “Thank you for helping. I’ll come see you at dinnertime.” 

Tansy nodded and slipped through the doorway. It latched with a click, and Sansa fell against it. 

She was very much alone, and for the first time in many, many moons, she felt safe, untroubled, free. The modest inn may as well be a fortified castle for all the protection it afforded her. No harm would come while she lingered between these four careworn walls, because beyond the walls dwelled friends, people who would lay down their life for her. 

Sansa listened to her steady breath as she unwove her plaits. Her auburn hair spilled to her hips, a tangle of stringy waves coated in a sheen of grease. Oh, what wouldn't she give to have someone else to comb it and make it beautiful, and to never see it so dull and malformed again. She would make do, for now. 

Sansa pried the knot from the bandage at her chest and tossed it aside, shivering at the trickle of open air on her breasts. The cut had healed to a fine rusty line, but the memory of Sandor's forbidden warmth remained, as fresh as that fateful morning

Sansa shook away the thought and eased into her steaming bath one inch at a time. Warm water flowed over her body up to her neck, and she rested her head on the angled wooden lip of the tub. She floated for many minutes, her body unburdened of its weight, before taking up the soap and brush that the children had left for her. 

She slid the bar over her dusty skin, over clumps of mud that hot water alone couldn't dissolve. Pure white flesh lay under the accumulated filth, save for Sansa's growing collection of scars: the half moon on her thigh, a bruise at her ankle, small nicks on her hands and wrists, and the one long cut. Sansa shuddered, then scoured her underarms raw. 

When she was sufficiently washed, she dropped underneath the surface. Her hair radiated around her, suspended in the water like a sunken starburst, and her remaining breath bubbled out from her nose. Sansa waited until the world went fuzzy, then emerged. 

She realized belatedly she had no towel, so she stepped from the tub and stood by the fire. She eased shaky fingers through her wet hair, flinging drops of water onto the smooth hardwood below, then fixed two braids tied with linen scraps. 

Sansa thought of ribbons with a pang to her chest. She _ needed _ ribbons, desperately. And hairpins. Would the girls here have any to spare? 

She sighed and idled in front of the full length mirror. Wood carved into thorny vines and blooming roses wrapped around its edges and framed Sansa's nude form like a portrait. She tilted her head and looked. 

This was her body. 

Fair skin and auburn hair, red in some places, orange in others. Her hips and breasts had blossomed with the spring of her womanhood, alongside a dainty triangle of red hair. She liked how soft curves replaced straight lines over the years, leaving a shelf of flesh under her slight waist. Sansa circled a finger around her bones, from her hip to her ribs, and up to her neck. 

There used to be more to her body. More abundance, more softness. Her woe had made her shrink until her skeleton cast shadows on her skin. Sansa's lip trembled, but she stilled it with a bite. She couldn't stop the water at her eyes, however. 

She would be pretty again, full again. The purple and red would fade back to white. 

Sansa fell to her knees and swam in her own wet stare. Men liked this picture. A small nose kissed by fairies, they would say, a delicate chin, full lips, eyes like a doe, and long, fluttering lashes. 

_ This is pretty_, Sansa told herself. _ This is what men like_. 

_ But I like it too_, she shouted, mute. 

She liked the white cream of her skin. She liked the tender swell of muscle underneath. She liked how her slender wrists carried her hands, how each fingertip ended in a smooth, long nail. She liked the pink on her lips, and the matching pink of her nipples. She liked the perpetual blush on her cheeks, and she especially liked when she glowed so hot blush found her nose, too. 

She looked a maiden fair, like paintings and tapestries and pages in storybooks, but she refused to believe her appearance was common. No woman had the same bow at her lips, or copper shine in her hair, or twinkle of blue in her eye. Sansa's beauty was her own. Men loved it, but she loved it more. 

Sansa wiped away a solitary tear and stood. 

"I'm still pretty," she whispered to her reflected mouth, fogging the glassy surface of the mirror.

Then she tore herself away and opened the wardrobe. She frowned. 

One dusty dress hung inside: roughspun wool, eggshell blue, and plain. But Sansa had no other choice, so she snatched up the boring thing and pulled it over her body. It itched and smelled moist, but the wool fit well enough on her body to suffice. 

She would have a full wardrobe when she made it home. She would have silken slippers too, Sansa added, as she put on her hose and refastened her travel boots. 

As soon as Sansa had dressed and adjusted her skirts in the mirror, a knock sounded at the door. 

“It’s me,” a voice called through thick wooden planks. “Can I come in?” 

Without waiting for an answer, Arya popped her head in the room. “I just wanted to talk,” she called.

Sansa gave a vacant nod. How odd it was to look on Arya's face, distorted from her own ascent into womanhood, or princehood, or wherever Arya was headed. 

“Great,” Arya jaunted inside and landed with a plop on the bed. She patted the mattress. "Sit with me." 

Sansa crossed the room and settled next to her sister. She buried her fingers in the abundant brown fur beneath her, and she stared out to a threadbare tapestry of a maiden dancing with a bear. 

“Do you like it?” Arya queried. 

“Oh, very much so,” Sansa intoned. “Much better than the road. Better than the isle. I already feel closer to home.” 

“I wanted to talk about that, about taking you home.” 

“Oh?" Sansa met her sister's eye. "What of it?" 

"It's--it's complicated," Arya sighed. "I wish it wasn't. But I have a plan, somewhat." 

"And?" Sansa pressed, irked by Arya's solemnity. Her pulse made itself known in her ears, and a certain heaviness weighed in her belly. 

"We have more family than Rickon, or Bran, or Jon."

"I don't care about Jon," Sansa sneered. 

"I know, I know," Arya recovered. She expelled a ragged breath and pushed a hand through her cropped hair. "It's mother, Sansa. She's alive." 

Time slowed, the crackle of flame warped into a low rumble, and Sansa's heartbeat became a high pitched ring, an ache of unbidden existence. Words bubbled in her throat and withered. 

Her mother, alive? It couldn't be.

"Sansa," Arya gripped her hand and squeezed, hard. "They brought her back to life, the Red Priest did. She's...different. But she's alive." After a shaky inhale, she continued. "Mother's taken the name Lady Stoneheart, and she holds Harrenhal. You have to see her." 

"No." Sansa's head snapped up and met Arya's concerned eye. 

"Sansa, please, be reasonable. We'll go see her, it's not more than a day's ride, and we can assemble an escort north from there. How does that sound?" 

"I don't know," Sansa moaned.

How could it be that her mother lived? How could Littlefinger have kept so much from her? 

But Sansa hadn't asked after her mother, either. In all those years, she scarcely thought beyond her craggy mountain cage. She thought of home in progressively distant abstractions, memories quilted together made of nought but air and echoes of warmth. 

She wanted to fly away, but where? 

Arya's wooden grasp tied Sansa to the bed. She would stay here, in the realm of the living, with her sister, her brothers, and her mother. 

"Sansa," Arya began again, cautiously. "Mother will want to know what you said, of Littlefinger and what he did to Aunt Lysa." 

Sansa blinked away the pressure of tears and shook her head, "I can't, Arya…I just can't." 

She would share the sky with Littlefinger, too. 

She had willfully omitted the worst details of their time together. The base touches, the overripe breath masked by minty tincture, and that night, the scariest night, when everything went wrong. But Sansa couldn't bring herself to share this darkness. It lurked low in her heart, and she took no issue in letting it rot. 

"Look, I'll come with you. You have to see mother before you go north. This is for family, Sansa. I promise we'll get you home." 

Sansa removed Arya's hand, then settled with her back against the wall and her arms wrapped around her knees. She stared up at the ceiling, where thick beams crisscrossed in wide triangles to support bundles of straw at the roof. Home, Sansa thought. Where was home? 

Arya cleared her throat, then muttered, "What of Sandor?" 

"Sandor?" Sansa replied too quickly, her gaze dropping back to her sister. 

"Well, our scorned swordsman must have some sort of plan, right?" 

"Oh, I don't know," Sansa fussed. "I suppose he'll go on to King's Landing. He wants to bend the knee and earn his keep. He wants to hunt Gregor." 

“You mean the Mountain? I thought he was dead. No one’s seen or heard from him in years--they say the Martell’s got him in that duel, and that was a while ago.” Arya clicked her teeth, “Couldn’t say for certain though. No one’s found his body.” 

Sansa sighed, “I thought as much. I couldn't bear to tell him.” 

What would Sandor do if he had no brother to fight? Would he agree to be her guard? Would he ride north with her instead? Or would he disappear west, never to return?

Sansa's belly ached, hollow and heavy. He would have a pleasant life without her. 

“What happened? I mean…between the two of you?" Arya scooted across the bed and knelt at Sansa's side. "When he tried to ransom me, he said he saved your life in the King’s Landing. He said could have taken you, but in much harsher language.”

“Arya…it's really nothing." Sansa began, ignoring the heat on her face and thrum of her heart. "I only know he’s not the enemy. I hope you can believe me.” 

“I do,” Arya gave a gentle nod. “I forgave him, you know, for killing Mycah. I didn’t think he’d survive when I left him out by Saltpans, but I forgave him.”

"I'm glad," Sansa whispered. 

She reached out and rested a hand on her sister's knee. Maybe one day she'd find words for what happened between herself and Sandor. She knew only the rescue of his strong arms, the heat of his proximity, and the untold sorrow in his grey eyes. Sansa wanted to rest in his embrace and ease the black and crimson burn, but it should never happen. They would live their lives in distant stretches of the kingdom and forget their stolen intimacy. 

“Maybe he’d be able to get more news of Gregor at Harrenhal,” Arya broke the silence, “or at the very least supplies for his heedless quest. We don’t have much to spare here." 

“Perhaps,” Sansa replied, “if he hasn’t tired of my company.” 

Arya cackled, “Tired of you? Hah! Have you seen the way he looks at you?”

“What do you mean?” Sansa whined. 

“He looks at you like…" Arya forced speech through insipid giggling, "Like he’s seen a very beautiful ghost, one he would lay down his life to save, even if she was already dead." 

“Ugh, you’re the worst,” Sansa pouted. She dropped her head to her knees and breathed in mildew. “He did always care for me though, in the Red Keep. Joffrey, oh, he was horrible. And I think Sandor was trying to protect me, even then. I just don’t know why.”

“You can’t be that simple, Sansa, really,” Arya answered, her voice like vinegar and her lips tight. “Look at you. The fairest maiden in all the fucking realm, of course he’d kill a thousand men, kings even, to win your affection. Don’t be so daft.” 

Arya had never called Sansa fair. 

Still, she rebuffed, “You wouldn’t understand. You don’t know what it was like.”

Sansa loathed Arya’s bold language and shrewd observations, because Arya was right. Sansa had bestowed brash affection upon Sandor, but he had he even cared? He reacted to her touch with such revulsion, recoiling often, scarcely deviating from a scowl, and at best granting her a bleak grin and blank stare. 

"Let's leave tomorrow, Sansa. We'll get you home." Arya jostled Sansa's knee, and she unfolded, slowly. 

The room crumbled and spun at the corners, nothing stable, anything familiar turned to ash. A dead mother reborn to rule a dark castle, a dark man gone light in Sansa's heart. Nowhere was home. Nothing mattered. Fire, perhaps food. But a distant warmth urged Sansa forward; it picked up her head and pumped blood in her veins. 

"Fine," she yielded. "I'll go." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned--I swear on my life that the next chapter is my finest work to date. Also, thank you for reading this far! I know the beginning is a little choppy but I feel like I'm maybe hitting my stride? 
> 
> 'Til next time 😊


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor gets shit-faced then gets his shit together, barely.
> 
> Chapter track: Joji - ATTENTION

### Sandor

Sandor's afternoon was shit. 

The red haired orphan, Ben, led him to cramped room at the end of the hall. Sandor ducked through the doorway and found his nose immediately assaulted by a thick, relentless must. Black splotches of mold dotted the sagging ceiling, which drooped to Sandor's height and sent a steady drip into a near full bucket at his feet.

"Y-you have to dump it," Ben stuttered, his eyes anywhere but on Sandor. 

He seized the boy by his trembling chin, forced a gander, then rasped, "Get me a damn tunic, and be quick about it." 

Ben nodded, and Sandor shoved him from the room with a pithy grunt. He kicked the bucket, sending a solid smack of water to the ground, then landed on the limp straw mattress. It mushed like cud under his weight. 

_ Fuck this, _he fumed. 

They had spared him a chamber pot, a lopsided washstand with an empty basin, and a threadbare quilt. That was it. He would rather sleep in the snow. 

Just as Sandor stripped down to his breeches and boots, Ben reentered with a timid knock. He shuffled toward Sandor's rotten stoop, a woolen wad in hand, his outstretched arm flailing like a twig in the wind. 

"This is all we have. S-sorry." 

Sandor snatched the shirt and glowered until the boy left, then downed a begrudging lungful of dank air. This was his lot now, and he would have to make do. He was no longer a man of the kingsguard or a sworn shield, sitting pretty in a castle and reaping the spoils of his wealthy masters. He was no longer a holy man either, unbound by rank and title, fed by the Gods. 

He was a strong, ugly man with a sword and a grudge. He would have to make do. 

Sandor dragged the bucket to his feet and splashed mildewy water over his torso. He wiped away the worst of the filth, then dried off with his rank and bloodied tunic, most likely rendering himself even dirtier than before. He seethed. 

Eventually, he gave up and squeezed into the new tunic. His bulky muscles strained the seams and imprinted the thin wool with their swell, but Sandor had already ceded to discomfort. His harrowing size was an advantage when he defended swooning maidens from miscreants, but at present it was a goddamn burden, sitting in a too-tight tunic in a too-small room, every ounce of excessive muscle screaming to be fed. 

Sandor only wanted drink, but he would wait until supper. 

He redressed in his jerkin, belt, and cloak, then tore from the inn out to the stables. There was another orphan there, a gangly boy with a curtain of greasy brown hair. He looked up from his work of feeding Arya's pony when Sandor entered. 

"The black one must be yours," the boy offered, matter-of-fact. He gestured with his chin to Stranger, one stall over. 

Sandor grunted his affirmative. 

"I'm Wat, by the way," he added, a keen green eye on Sandor's burns. The boy had a ruined face too, Sandor noticed. A jagged red scar ran from his right temple to his neck, thinly veiled by mousy hair. 

"Sandor," was his cold reply.

He pushed past Wat to greet Stranger, but before he could even aim a pat on the horse's muzzle, the boy spoke again. 

"What happened to your face?" 

Sandor whipped around with narrowed eyes. "Fire. What happened to yours?" 

"Bear." 

They shared a moment of sympathetic silence, then Wat extended the bucket of oats to Sandor. "Hadn't fed him yet. Looks hungry." 

"His name's Stranger," Sandor said, accepting the offered feed. "And aye, he's fucking hungry." 

"You steal him? A fine courser, that." 

Sandor scoffed, "No. I earned him, long ago."

"He's handsome." 

"I know." 

"Why were you with the princess?" 

"Because--" Sandor started, then leveled an icy stare. "Just leave it be." 

"Right, of course." Wat shrunk. "Sorry." 

Stranger ate gladly while Sandor steeped in an unholy sentimental stew. 

Why was he with the princess? 

_ The princess_. The king's sister. The maiden with whom he had spent a quarter moon, alone, in the riverlands. Whose chest he had seen laid bare, had fucking _ touched_. 

Seven fucking hells. 

What ungodly force bound them together, and continued to bind them together, here, at the inn? Why the fuck had Sandor agreed to follow the two maids of Winterfell to this godforsaken dump? He could have scrounged up a shirt, hunted rabbit, made his way south without complaint. She weakened him. 

The warped skin on his face crawled with heat, and his already lank hair congealed into sweaty strands that sent a salty sting to his open sores. He needed only to survive one night under the same roof as Sansa, then he would ride south. He needed a drink. 

Dusk fell, and yet another roustabout orphan came to call them to dinner. Sandor stalked to the inn behind a gaggle of children who snickered and and stole nervous glances back at him. He pretended to ignore them. 

Sandor was amongst the first to arrive. Long tables and benches filled the otherwise empty common room, and a fire roared in the hearth, giving the walls a frantic orange gleam. As Sandor made his way to the back of the hall, he stepped over a rusty brown stain on the floorboards. 

Blood. 

Was it his blood? Or was that from his brother's men? 

He threw a compulsive glance over his shoulder, slipped a hand to his belt, just in case. There was nothing to fear or fight, only a handful of sheepish orphans, but his heart rattled against his ribs all the same. 

Sandor fell onto a bench nestled in a corner the flame didn't quite reach, then waited as the room grew loud and hot with human bodies. Lots of orphans, some travellers, merchants, sellswords. No one Sandor recognized. 

Time crept along amidst strangers. His tunic suffocated and scratched his skin. Sweat trickled into angry cracks in his burns, and his stomach writhed as though a bat had fallen down his throat and now attempted a frenzied escape. 

When a serving girl came around with platters of meat, he clasped her frail wrist and growled, "Wine, now."

The girl whimpered but delivered the wine in time, damn near throwing a flagon onto the table before scurrying away. Sandor ignored the goblet to his left and brought the brimming clay vessel straight to his lips. He drank as though he had never known liquid in his life, embracing the acidic gall of the wine. Fortified wine, cut with something stronger, something better than wine. 

Sandor sucked his teeth. Apple brandy. 

He siphoned more from the flagon until his head throbbed, then lay claim to a well-laden dish of beef from across the table. The closest men to him, a ragtag assortment of commoners, cast sidelong glances but said nothing. So he ate, barely chewing, mostly swallowing, but savoring each bite. Whoever did the cooking roasted a tough cut of beef into something palatable, and they knew their spices. 

Sandor had drenched a heel of bread in drippings lifted his hand to bite when he saw her. The soggy bread fell to the table with a thunk. 

Sansa strolled arm in arm with her sister into the room, a coy smile on her lips, her cheeks aglow, and her hair lamentably eye-catching. She wore a new dress too, a plain blue one. The hem fell well above her ankles and the bodice pulled her waist to a tight hourglass.

Sandor's blood, hot and thick with drink, churned in his veins. She looked well. 

And she joined a table of rowdy children with her back to Sandor. Their eyes went wide and a slew of toothless grins spawned on their messy faces. He couldn't make out their words, but he knew even at a distance that they fell over themselves to win Sansa's attention. And by the gentle shake of her head, he knew she indulged them gladly. 

Sandor scooped up the misplaced bite of bread, now cold, and forced it down his throat. He dumped some wine on top for good measure. 

She wouldn't even spare him a glance. Perhaps she thought him gone already and carried on as she surely would, surrounded by admirers, a smile plastered on her face. She would thrive without him. Sansa had all the airs of nobility, all the grace, all the fine tuned witticisms; she lacked only the crown. 

But not for long. 

Sandor pushed a ragged breath through his nose and drank. The booze made his head heavy, filled with wet sand that sent it swaying restlessly on his neck. Sand clogged his ears too and reduced the din of the crowded hall to a dull hum. 

He should go. Ride out in the dark and make his way south. 

Instead, he buried his face in a pile of braised turnips and depleted them. 

The cloying scrape of wood on wood caught his attention. A few of the older boys wrestled some of the heavy oak benches and tables against the wall, then pitched a chair by the hearth. A lute player with hollow cheeks and a pointed goatee took up the seat and strummed. 

Sandor stewed. He hated singers. He hated noisy halls crammed with shrill singing and raucous dancing. He hated tight clothes and tight spaces. He hated the heat on his face and pain in his gut. Mostly, he hated that his little bird ignored him. 

She took one of the boys by the hand and led him to makeshift dance floor. The boy's jaw fell slack and his dark eyes flickered over Sansa's trim figure. Sandor knew the look. He too had been a green lad, eager to discover the joy of sharing air with a pretty girl, and no girl was prettier than a princess. 

Sandor drank, and Wat had a go with Sansa to the tune of _ The False and the Fair_, an inane song with nonsense for lyrics. The boy had a hazy look in his eye and a telltale swell in his trousers, and his feet couldn't plant a single purposeful step. He slid his hands from Sansa's grip and rested them too low on her hips, too deep in her flesh. 

_ Fuck this. _

Sandor stood, but his cumbersome thighs met the edge of the table and sent the empty flagon flying to the floor. It shattered. The music cut, and all eyes landed on him at once. He looked up just in time to meet hers.

She smiled and dipped her head into the slightest of curtsies. 

A hot broth of turnips, beef, and brandy rushed into Sandor's mouth. He gathered his wits with a caustic swallow and a wet burp, then collapsed back onto the bench. 

_ Fuck this. _

The dancing devolved into messy jigs and slapdash singing. Sandor couldn't tell any of the children apart anymore, they all morphed into one mass of stunted limbs and tiny, shrill voices. 

He heard Sansa's voice, though. Soft as silk, her singing worked through the sludge in Sandor's ears and coiled tightly around his heart. He heaved, but no sick came. Instead, his throat closed like a vise, and his shoulders lurched forward.

He laughed, or sobbed, or groaned, and sheltered his head in his hands, but her cold cooing infected him all the same. 

So he brooded, until the music dwindled and the children either flitted off to bed or dropped to sleep on the benches. Sansa returned to sit with her sister and another boy, dark featured and more a man than a child. The boy smiled at Sansa but scarcely took his spellbound gaze from Arya. 

The three of them chatted, and Sandor's eyelids grew too heavy to spy. His muddied head lolled to the left and rested on the rigid stone wall. He found darkness and a dizzying, empty warmth, but he couldn't escape the incessant thud of his heart. Not tonight. 

A gentle cough sounded closeby and Sandor's eyes pulled open. 

"Sandor," Sansa greeted, sinking into a well-practiced curtsy. "May I join you?" 

Sandor's shoulders ticked up an inch to a listless shrug. When she sat, he garnered enough strength to remove his face from the wall, though his head wobbled uselessly on his spine. 

Sansa had a bath; he could tell. When he plucked her from the river he inadvertently smeared a finger of mud on her neck, but now, only snow white skin remained. He would have told her of the mud eventually, of course, but he liked the earthen trace of his touch. 

The bandage was gone, too. Her breasts pressed freely against her bodice, two round swells tipped with pert nipples. Her cut lay just underneath the swath of blue wool, another token of their misadventure, one that would not so readily disappear. 

And her braids, fuck. 

They fell over her chest and disappeared underneath the table, ever-gleaming with their own own light. Sandor's fingers itched--he wanted to take hold of them, to make Sansa closer, to drink in her sweet perfume. Would that still the blasted ache in his body? 

“Sandor,” Sansa started, then waited to find his eye. “Are you well?” 

“I’m fine,” he groused. 

Sansa reached across the table and made to steal his hand, but Sandor dodged the offense by stowing it under the table. 

“Don’t.” 

Her face wilted and her lower lip pushed out. If she cried, Seven hells, Sandor would dash his head into the wall until his skull became a red pulp. Thankfully, Sansa held her tears, though her mouth trembled and shaped unspoken words. Her tongue perched beyond her pretty white teeth, a wet, pink pillow. 

He wanted to rest there. 

A slug of arousal trailed through his veins, followed by a yearning for drink, for numbness. Why, Gods, why did he have to think of these things? To _ feel _ these things? 

“I-I have news," Sansa said finally, her voice a cautious quiver. "I'm riding to Harrenhal tomorrow."

Sandor tilted his good ear closer. "Harrenhal?"

Did he hear her correctly? What the fuck was at Harrenhal? A fucking wreck of a castle, that's what. Nothing good to be had in that haunted sty. 

After another few shaky breaths Sansa replied, “Yes, Harrenhal. My mother...she lives there. The red priest found her and brought her back to life...the brotherhood without banners holds the castle."

Sandor snorted. The brotherhood. 

Bugger them and their damn fire magic. And bringing back the dead? Fuck that. A pity that she would call on them, the sorry lot of moony fools. 

Sansa sighed, “I wanted to know if you would come with us, Arya and me. We leave tomorrow morning." 

Sandor's neck snapped up to find her watery blue eyes. Join them on another fucking ride through nowhere? Hadn’t he had enough? 

“Arya thinks they’ll know more about your brother’s whereabouts, and they have more supplies than the inn, for when you…” She swallowed, then continued, “when you leave. On your quest.”

“Hah. A quest, is it?” 

“Yes, Sandor, a noble quest.” Sansa's airy whisper became a quiet charge. “You need to bring Gregor to justice, not just for yourself, but for all of us.” 

“Justice...” The word slipped from his misshapen lips. 

Salt leached into his burns, and his teeth clamped shut. She knew nothing, his little bird, and yet she knew too much. 

This image flashed in his mind's eye: Gregor, eighteen, bathed in blood at the gates of the keep. _ Dead_, he said, answering Sandor's question before he breathed it into existence. _ Lion got him_. 

But his father knew better. His father would never fall prey to a lion. He fell prey to something much worse: a scorned son. 

A strong, scorned son. 

There was no body. There were no bones. Sandor searched the hills for months before he took up his sword and never returned. Nowhere was home. Nowhere was just, or right, or good. 

Everything was blood and fire. 

But there was something else now, something foreign that invaded his foggy mind and tumultuous gut. It hurt. 

“Please, Sandor." Sansa's gentle prompt forced his eyes open. Had he fallen asleep? He blinked and looked but held no focus. 

"Come with me," she pleaded. "I don’t…I don't want to go alone.” 

Sandor's jaw twitched and his heart thumped thrice. 

“I’ll think about it,” he managed through gritted teeth. 

She held her hand in a slack fist on the table. Her fingers were so slight they could snap like twigs. Seven hells, her entire body was slender, breakable. Her frail wrists, gracile arms. Even her spine--the press of which Sandor knew too well--could be severed with one well-placed blow. 

Sandor wanted that hand. He wanted to cradle each fragile bone, not to break, but to protect. If he could only hold her in his arms, now, tomorrow, the day after, and every day following. He would chase her over the horizon and into the sunset sea, if only she could be safe. 

Her bones wouldn't snap. Her blood would swim under her skin. It would stay on as a blush at her cheeks and sometimes, as Sandor had noticed, her nose. 

The wine, the bat, everything melted down like lead in his stomach. He wanted to run, but he wouldn't go far with this weight. 

Sandor chanced a look up, and his head went cold. Full pools of blue water danced in Sansa's eye. She stood. 

“If you truly care for me, Sandor, come. We ride out in the morning.”

Sansa offered a resolute curtsy before striding through the common room and disappearing into the stairwell. 

Sandor sat. 

His eyes opened and closed. His head fell against stone, then came up, then fell again. He slumped onto the table. He breathed, but he didn't breathe quite right. The air was thick like honey. It clogged his nostrils and his lungs; it seeped into his blood. 

He would take her. 

Everyone was asleep. He could take her and ride. They'd go west; they'd be at his keep in no more than half moon. Isn't that what she had offered? To be taken? 

He could take her waist, too. Lower one hand to her hip, raise one hand to her tender chest. He wanted to see it again. He wanted to see her scar, her own unwelcome ugliness. 

He wanted to taste her tongue. 

Sandor coughed and bile spilled out onto the table. The honey disappeared. It was all fire again. He crawled against the wall, away from the dull orange glow in the hearth, out to where the winter air kissed his molten skin. 

He pissed, somewhere, and probably puked too. He couldn't see the stars. 

The kiss of cold became a more of an assault, so Sandor stumbled inside and dragged his feet to his door. He knew it by the smell--wet and bad. The bucket overflowed onto the floor. Sandor stuck his face in it. He swallowed some water, spit some back out, then wretched up his dinner all in the same breath. 

He fell into bed and sobbed, maybe. His shoulders shook and his jaw quaked, and he couldn't get enough air. His face was wet with something. 

Sandor knew this feeling.

He wanted the girl more than he wanted revenge. She was a better cure. The best cure. He would follow her to the edge of the world, where the sun meets the moon, where dark and light are the same.

_ Home_, he thought, over and over, to the sound of his pounding heart. _ I'll take her home. _

\--

Sandor woke, his memory blank, his mouth dry, and his head cleaved open. 

Dim light poked through a shabby window and clung to Sandor's pitiful surroundings. He was at the crossroads. A pile of vomit rested by his bed. A crust of vomit varnished his ill-fitting sleeves. 

Well, he had gotten what he wanted: staggering drunkenness and a wash of darkness. 

He remembered the dried blood on the floorboards, the sour mix of wine and brandy, the dancing, the singing. But she had ignored him, right? He remembered her tight wool gown, her red cheeks, her shiny hair, but he couldn't recall a single word.

It didn't fucking matter. He needed to go. 

Sandor's pulse screamed in his head as he stood, but he shook it off with a determined grunt. He stooped to soak off some of the puke from his tunic in the bucket, realizing too late that soggy chunks of regurgitated turnip and beef eddied in the water. 

_ Fuck this_, the eternal hymn, echoed in his sore skull. 

He kicked the bucket hard enough for it to topple, then stormed down the corridor.

He would find pantry, raid it, and ride out. He would be free. 

Sandor rounded a blind corner and collided into someone small, staggering backwards at the impact. Fucking cunt. 

“Watch it,” he spat.

“My apologies, uh...Sandor, if I'm not mistaken?”

It was that boy with the dark hair and lean muscle that gave Arya gooey looks. Why did he know Sandor's name? 

“What of it?” Sandor growled. He looked over the boy's head and down the hall--would the kitchen be there? 

"Nothing--I was come to see you, is all. Lady Sansa, she gave this to me before she left, she wanted you to have this.” 

The boy raised his palms to reveal a dagger sheathed in a black leather scabbard. Wolf's head. Opal. It was Sansa's dagger. What the fuck was she getting at, returning the damn thing? And they had left? For where?

Sandor snatched up the weapon. “Where are they headed?”

“To Harrenhal, Ser. They’ve gone to see Lady Stoneheart.” The boy shifted his stance, his eyes swirling restlessly above and beyond Sandor. "I beg your pardon."

The boy darted past Sandor and turned the corner. 

Lady Stoneheart? Who the fuck--

But he remembered. The little bird was flying back to her undead mother, and she had asked him to come. 

Sandor squeezed the dagger in his grip, hesitated for a split second, then ran. 

To hell with supplies. Sandor saddled Stranger and burst from the stables at a full gallop, due South. Harrenhal wasn't far, the morning wasn't late, and two maidens could only ride so fast. He must have been well in his cups to forget her plea, but he wouldn't disappoint. 

After no more than a half hour, two figures appeared in the distance. Sansa rode an unfamiliar grey palfrey, and Arya sat atop her homely pony. The sisters turned at the sound of Stranger's clattering hooves, and Arya called out. 

“Look who it is. You’re late.” 

Sandor steadied his stallion to trot alongside Arya's less capable mount and glared. 

"You smell terrible." Arya grimaced and pinched her nose in mock disgust. "Have enough of that wine last night? You know, when it's fortified, you're supposed to drink less." 

"Fuck you," he reproached. 

Arya gasped and set a hand over her heart. “Careful or we’ll set the brotherhood on you. I’m sure they haven’t forgotten their dear Beric, hm?”

She issued a smug smirk and Sandor shook his head, forcing his mouth into a flat line. This maiden, princess, boy, whatever, had a real way with words, but he didn't mind. Her compulsion to bold speech made her more tolerable than the whole king's court. 

Sandor glimpsed back at Sansa as he urged Stranger forward. Her hood disguised most of her face, revealing only her delicate chin and a faint but unmistakable grin.

Was she glad then, that he had come? Had she truly wanted his company? 

No, he was after information, rations. For his _ noble quest_. That was all. 

But he couldn't think beyond the splitting ache in his head and the shadow of sick in his gut. And his heart, Seven hells, his heart slammed against his ribs, steady and strong. He felt this way last night, he knew. Limbs dense, blood denser, and his head all too light. 

The drink ruined him. He forgot all the wrong things. 

A melodious giggle rang out from behind--his little bird. The sweet song of her laughter rippled through the air and swam in his heart. 

That was the feeling. 

\--

At dusk, Arya guided them to a secluded clearing. Bare trees circled a crisp patch of grass, just big enough to set camp. They pitched tents and gathered wood, then dumped their findings in a massive pile and lit it ablaze. 

Sansa posed on a stump and warmed her hands while Sandor and Arya had brief squabble over who was to prepare dinner. She touted her nobility, so Sandor backed down and fumbled through his bags to uncover the cookware he'd put to good use over the past few days. 

He pulled out the dagger, too. 

After dropping the pot on the flame, he pushed the blade and all its trappings onto Sansa's lap. 

"You forgot this, little bird." 

"Oh," she straightened and looked up. "I won't be needing it." 

"Horseshit. If you ride with me you'll wear the damn thing." 

"Fine," she yielded, then swept the belt around her waist and buckled it. She cocked a playful brow. "Is that better?"

Sandor smirked, "Aye. Much better." 

"Do you even know how to use it?" Arya challenged from across the fire, where she fiddled with her own funny-looking blade. 

Sansa looked to Sandor and back to her sister. 

Arya laughed, "Well, come show me whatever sorry skills Sandor taught you, and I'll teach you better." 

Her insults would have pissed him off if she hadn't spared Sandor the intensity of Sansa's blue-eyed attention. He could scarcely breathe her air tonight. 

So he cooked. He boiled potatoes and freshly butchered rabbit while Sansa and Arya sparred next to him. He stared into the pot to avoid the sight of the silver dagger in Sansa's hand, which made his skin all too hot, but he couldn't avoid her laughter. It sounded out amidst the clink of steel on steel, gentle and genuine. 

There was no sweeter sound, he knew. He found himself missing Margaery. They played with wooden swords as children, but he would have shown her steel, too. They would have bested Gregor together. 

Too late. Always too late. 

Sandor called the girls to dinner and served them heaping bowls stew. Sansa's fingers brushed against his own as she took hers, and the hot liquid near jumped onto the ground, but Sandor recovered just in time. 

“You’re not _ that _bad, Sansa,” Arya quipped as her sister eased onto a soft fallen log at her side. “I'll help you get better." 

Sandor scoffed into his dinner. 

"What? You think I can't fight?" Arya mused. 

Sandor swallowed a scalding lump of potato, then pressed, “Tell me, how many years do you have, eleven? And how many men have you slain with that..._ toy_?” Sandor gave Arya's blade a disapproving look. 

"Sandor," Sansa scolded, but it was gutless. 

“Thirteen," Arya answered, unbothered. "And with Needle, two hundred seventy-six." 

“Arya…that many?” 

She shrugged. "I've been busy. Lots of work to do. But I promised Bran and Mother I would." 

“Surely there must be an end to the killing eventually,” Sansa sighed. “It’s all so grim.” 

Sandor snorted but caught his tongue when Sansa threw him a despondent frown. 

"Well, I'm almost done," Arya continued in between smacks and slurps of stew. "Just a few loose ends, rogue Freys, headless knights, nothing so terrible for peacetime. More importantly, we found you. Stoneheart's been mad with worry. Though she's, ah, always been more mad than Mother." 

"S-should I be concerned?" Sansa queried. Her brows furrowed over her shining eyes, and her soup sat in her lap, perfectly untouched. 

Arya dragged in a breath through clenched teeth. "Yes and no. I don't know how else to say it...she's cold. And Sansa, she took Harrenhal from Littlefinger." 

Sansa turned white, or rather orange, and pale blue where the fire didn't paint her face.

"I mean, it wasn't rightfully his," Arya recovered. "But she's wanted Bran to take back the Vale since he took the throne, too. She hates him. She'll hate him worse when she knows what he did to Aunt Lysa." 

"And me," Sansa added. 

"Aye, and you. I still don't get why he wouldn't let you go." 

All went quiet, and Sansa stirred her spoon listlessly through her cold dinner. She sighed, "He wanted to marry me." 

"What?" The question burst from Sandor's lips, urgent and venomous. Immediate regret sunk in his stomach when Sansa's lower lip fell. 

Still, through a tremor in her voice, she replied, "He wouldn't let me go, he wouldn't let me be myself, unless I agreed to marry him." 

"So you left?" Arya pressed. 

"So I left," she repeated. 

"I'm so sorry, Sansa. I'm glad you made it out." 

"I am too." 

The silence that fell was long and dark. Arya smoothed a hand over her sister's back while Sansa stared bleakly at the fire. 

What had he done to her? What compels a maiden of sixteen to risk her life in the Mountains of the Moon? Something terrible. 

Men were terrible, and Sandor was no exception. But some men were worse than terrible. Some men fondled children and stole virtue. The threat of marriage was more than a threat of being wed. It's the threat of being bedded. 

Sansa's maidenhead changed hands more than once, but had someone claimed it, once and for all?

He recalled those words she shouted two nights ago, from the refuge of her tent. 

Sandor's wooden spoon snapped in half and clattered into his empty bowl. He groaned, mute, and Sansa's eyes landed on him. 

"Do you want mine?" She lifted her bowl and held it out. "I'm not very hungry." 

"Sure, little bird. If you're finished." 

Sandor took the offering and busied himself with the tepid stew. Blood flowed hot just under the surface of his marred skin.

He didn't belong here, or anywhere. 

His skin didn't fit in Lannisport, King's Landing, the Quiet Isle, or anywhere in between. He was nothing but seven feet of hulking muscle, trained to kill in an instant. No one expected anything else of him. No one needed to hear his dreams or his fears. 

He would kill though, for her, and he had. He would take Littlefinger by his little grey crop of hair shave his skin to the bone. But if she asked, he would put up his sword for good. He would sow seeds and raise a garden. He would surrender to life for her. 

He wouldn't hold his breath. 

Eventually, Sansa and Arya went off to their tent, and Sandor to his. He didn't sleep.

Sansa cried throughout the night. She cried for her Mother. She cried for Littlefinger. Just before the break of dawn, she whimpered, "Stay, Sandor. Stay with me." 

He didn't sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 💔💔💔


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and Sansa arrive at Harrenhal. 
> 
> Chapter track: Yung Lean - Agony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy,
> 
> To anyone who has been consistently reading, I just want to let y'all know that this morning I updated chapters 1-7. I got a bee in my bonnet about freshening up the prose and adding more substance (i.e. plot)(why am I doing this to myself), so I spent the entire week editing the beginning. It's all leading to the same place, nothing too drastic has changed, but I think it's a better start to the story. 
> 
> That said! I will probably be tweaking those chapters throughout the week just to make sure everything flows. 
> 
> In the meantime, y'all can have a new chapter, as a treat.

### Sansa 

Sansa dreamt of Sandor. 

Rugged touch and earthy musk. Lips where they shouldn't be. Skin on skin, bound in sweat. 

They fit so well together, way out there, in the unconscious, unknowable aether. There, entangled limbs never parted; pulses melded into one corporeal song. The dark reaches of her mind went bright with flame and blinded her. 

Sansa woke and couldn't remember. Her blood warmed her belly. 

And she stayed warm, flanked by her sister and Sandor, as they rode on through frosty fields. Arya entertained Sansa with stories from across the Narrow Sea, of beggars and mummers, Gods and assassins. Sansa listened. 

Late in the afternoon, the castle, a ponderous black creature, clambered up the horizon. Two powerful limbs pierced the sky, the other three crumbled back to the earth, casualties of time. A curtain wall ten times the size of Winterfell's walls mantled unseen innards. 

Sansa thought of insects. Harrenhal resembled a decrepit, godsmade beetle, upended and moldering pebble by pebble. 

If the castle was a beetle, Sansa was a mote of dust, come to rest in a stony corpse. 

Her white knuckles clutched the sturdy leather reins. She reminded herself to breathe. She looked to Arya, then up to Sandor. She inhaled. 

Two measly men manned a gate made of dark walnut, its planks near full trees. Ayra waved to the guards, and they signalled to other men high above with a flash of steel. Iron links groaned and relented, parting the heavy doors. 

They entered. 

The gate was less an archway and more a macabre hall. Sansa squinted to the ceiling, and dozens of murder holes like hostile grey eyes stared back down. How much blood painted the rushes? Or had the dark slate walls devoured every last drop of crimson nectar? 

Stale air crept into Sansa's constricted throat. She pushed it into her lungs. 

"Sandor," she exhaled before her will could catch her whim. 

"What's that?" He answered to her left. When Sansa balked, he offered, "Quite the beast, isn't it?"

She nodded. 

"You'll be just fine, as long as you leave a trail of ribbons wherever you go." 

Sansa wondered if a grin lay just beyond Sandor's veil of steel. His grey eyes lightened a shade and flickered, but he turned his face forward before Sansa knew for certain. 

Another man stood at the end of the gatehouse. He wore a yellow cloak, and a bushy brown beard swallowed his jaw and dropped to his chest. 

“Arya," he boomed. "You've returned. With company." 

Sansa circled a hand to her hood then loosed it to her shoulders. She nudged up her cheeks. 

"Could it be—" the man stroked his tangled beard where his mouth ought to be. 

"Aye, Lem." Arya replied, her voice flat. "It's Sansa. She's come to see Lady Stoneheart." 

"And him?" Lem raised a thick finger. 

Sandor tugged off his helmet and coaxed his hair into place with a practiced sweep of his hand. He glared, and Lem's brows rushed together. 

“The Hound? Why drag this beast to our doorstep?”

"Oh come off it, Lem. He saved my sister, so fuck you." Arya kicked Goat into a plodding trot. "We're going to see Lady Stoneheart now." 

Sansa fell in behind her sister, and Sandor followed at her back. The man called Lem trailed on foot. They dismounted at the stables and handed the reins to pimpled stableboy. Sansa let him kiss her hand, then she tread across the grounds at Arya's heels. Sandor stayed back a few paces, but the sour smell of sick and sweat drifted to Sansa's nose. 

A pang of pity spurred her stomach. He deserved better. Willow said he drank an entire flagon, that night at the inn. Had she disturbed him so? 

He would be on his way soon enough, and he would take his warmth with him. 

But he was right, Sansa would need ribbons to navigate the corridors. Black slate lined the interior walls, dotted with rapacious sconces that feasted on darkness. Sansa watched her feet as they wound through an endless maze of stone and fire, then collided into Arya's backside when she finally stopped. 

"This is it. Hall of a Hundred Hearths," Arya announced. 

Sansa craned her neck to behold the great, black doors. The black was man-made; a coat of ink or soot disguised the natural hue of the wood. She almost reached hand to trace along the dark cracks, but tightened her fist instead. 

Her mother would be there. Her heart unbeating, her skin unfeeling, but her eyes open. 

Sansa swallowed. 

"Ready?" 

Sansa nodded but couldn't convince her lips to part. Arya grasped the iron handle and threw her weight against the door to no avail, so Sandor slammed his palm above hers and made a gap wide enough for the party to pass. 

"Er, thanks," Arya muttered. She took Sansa's hand and pulled her through. 

"Wait," Lem protested as Sandor followed into the hall. "Stoneheart has nothing for him. We have nothing for him. Send the dog on his way."

Sandor growled, "Watch your tongue, Lemoncloak. I'll handle my own affairs." 

Sansa found his eye for a split second, too little time to offer up a smile, then Arya dragged her into the hall. 

There was no ceiling, or at least, the ceiling loomed so high it may as well be the sky. A web of tangled black branches extended from thick stone trunks and supported the false night above their heads. The columns ran the length of the hall, interspersed among the hearths. 

Sansa didn't count, but there were at least a hundred, if not more. She peered into each bed of flame as they passed, and said her prayers to the tune of her pounding heart. 

_ Let me go home _ , she prayed. _ Let Sandor have his keep. Protect me from lecherous men. From Littlefinger. Make him distant. Cast him down. Let Sandor protect me. Keep him close. Let him be the only one. _

Arya squeezed Sansa's hand and she looked up. Two figures posed at the end of the hall: a white-haired woman on towering throne and a blond knight at her side. 

Lady Stoneheart. 

Sansa willed herself forward with timid steps, finding more comfort in observing her dusty boots than the undead mistress at the head of the hall. 

"My lady," Arya called. Her joyless tone sent a chill down Sansa's spine. "I've found her." 

They stopped, and Sansa's gaze crawled upward. In place of her mother, a harrowing, grey creature perched on a pitch black throne. Icy blue eyes sunk deep in her skull, and papery skin draped over pointed bone. The mass of snow white hair that dropped into Stoneheart's lap shocked Sansa the most. She would never know her mother's kindred auburn curls again. 

Stoneheart's face didn't budge. Her near white eyes stayed light and lifeless. 

"Sansa…" She croaked. She beckoned Sansa with bony finger. 

Sansa approached the throne and fell to her knees. She arranged a reluctant kiss on her mother's swollen knuckles, then lifted her head. 

"Mother," she whispered, a shell of a word. "Mother." 

"Where have you been, dear girl?" Stoneheart cupped Sansa's cheek. Cold radiated from Sansa's spine to her blood, then seeped to her skin. 

What was her story? 

She tried to turn, to find Arya or Sandor, but her mother's skeletal grasp kept her face locked in place. No one answered for her. 

She breathed. 

"It was Littlefinger. He took me to the Vale, he…" Sansa blinked back the hot swell of tears in her eyes. "He made me pretend to be bastard. He killed Aunt Lysa. He—he tricked her into poisoning Uncle Jon. She was in love, but he killed her. And he wouldn't let me leave. He wouldn't—he wanted—" 

"But you escaped him?" The blond knight interrupted. 

Stoneheart dropped her hand and the shot the knight—a woman, Sansa realized—a venomous look. "Let her finish, Brienne." 

Sansa tried to clear the tightness from her throat with a weak cough. In a small voice, she managed, "Yes, I escaped. My friend helped me; we washed up on the Quiet Isle." 

"Why is he here, then?" Brienne bade again, with her lumpy nosed scrunched up and crooked teeth bared. 

Sansa whipped around to confirm Sandor's ongoing presence, and there he stood, in his spotted too-small tunic, strings of black hair pitifully concealing his burns. His mouth rested in a frown, but it eased up to a straight line when he found Sansa's eye. He tipped his head towards the throne, and Sansa understood. 

"Sandor escorted me from the isle," she explained. "He helped me. He's not the enemy, and I don't—I don't want any harm to come to him."

Stoneheart's eyes scoured Sandor, but the light faded from them, and hollow darkness took its place. In a vacant voice she recounted, "A black stranger, a scorned cur, he comes by her side, but he is tame…"

A cold minute passed. When a faint shadow of life crept back into her features, she hissed, "Very well. He can stay." She growled, "What of Littlefinger? Did he hurt you?" 

Sansa recoiled slightly under her mother's intense stare. 

Had Littlefinger hurt her? 

She suffered no bruises, no cuts. He drew no blood. But the memories lurked somewhere deep and unreachable, lest they consume her, take her away to the inevitable dark. Could she ever be certain? 

"He never...he never hurt me," Sansa said to the rushes. "Not truly. He simply wouldn't let me leave. He wanted me to stay as a bastard." 

"You will go to you brother." 

Sansa's head shot up. “R-rickon?” 

“She speaks of Bran," Brienne answered. "He’s king now; surely you’ve been told.” 

"Hush," Stoneheart scolded. Then, to Sansa, she ordered, "You shall attend court in the Red Keep. It is your duty." 

“Mother, I can't, please—” Sansa couldn't form words fast enough—not the Red Keep, anything but the Red Keep. A castle of shadows, blacker than the walls of Harrenhal. 

Sansa unfolded and took three uneasy steps backward, until Arya caught her at the waist. 

“What is it?" Her mother's rasp came with a tinge of contemptuous concern. "Do you not wish to see Bran?”

“It’s not Bran—I want to go home, to the North, to Winterfell." 

Laughter cracked from Stoneheart's purple lips like frigid lightning, and Brienne joined. If it weren't for Arya's spindly arm at her hip, Sansa would have run, or fallen, or thrown herself at Sandor and let him carry her far, far away. 

When Stoneheart calmed, she said, "It's not your choice to make, dear girl. It is for our family. There is nothing for you in the North, not now. Perhaps when this winter sees an end…But for now, you must give your account of Littlefinger's treason to Bran." 

Sansa shivered so forcefully she shook the water from eyes onto her reddened cheeks. She didn't want to speak of Littlefinger and recount her misadventure. She wanted to be home, to look upon familiar faces in familiar rooms, to fall asleep in the same feather bed every night, and to wake up glad to see that the sun had risen, yet again. 

But she would never make it north on her own, and she would never disobey her mother. 

She would never be home. 

“Sansa…” Arya set light fingertips on her shoulder. “Be reasonable.” 

Sansa wept. 

Littlefinger had said those exact words to her when she was captive, but she was still a captive, and nothing was reasonable. She would live her frivolous life of satin and circlets from behind invisible bars, reinforced with delusions of duty and honor. 

Sandor was right—the world was cruel and lonely. The only reliable company was the godsforsaken beating of one's heart, and Sansa's heart ached. It didn't fit in her chest; it stole the space for her breath and pounded against her ribs. 

_ Sandor, _ she found herself longing to cry, _ don't let them take me, _but the words didn't find air. 

“Sansa,” Arya's breath tickled her ear. “This is for our entire family, surely you can see that. But when everything is settled, if the winter is mild enough, you'll be back at Winterfell, I promise." 

Sansa dabbed at her warped face but couldn't wipe away her frown.

"Look, we'll send a fine escort. What if we sent Sandor, too? Would you like that?"

A few seconds passed as a wisp of warmth curled around her heart and loosened her breath. Sansa sniffed, "I'd like that just fine.” 

"She says she'll go," Arya called out. 

"Of course you will go," Stoneheart cradled Sansa in a biting stare as she strung her words like dark icicles across the hall. With chilling finality she announced, "You will attend court, and you will be married." 

The warmth dissipated as quickly as it had come. 

Sansa didn't want to be married. She wanted to run away, she _ had _ run away, but not far enough. Sansa wasn't clever enough to devise her own schemes and set her own fate. 

She was a stupid, stupid girl. 

Black spots clouded Sansa’s vision. _ You will marry me,_ he had said, _ and surrender your maidenhead to a loving husband. _

_ Or. _

He paused, lowered his lips a hair's breadth from hers. _ Or I will take you all the same, and a bastard you'll stay. No one will ever speak of Sansa Stark again. _

He filled her mouth with minted breath, laid a single finger on her neck, and rendered her immobile. There was nowhere to go. _ What will it be, sweetling? _ He crooned. _ Choose wisely, and I'll be gentle. I shouldn't like to hurt you, my dove, but you know I am true to my punishments. _

"Be gentle," Sansa whispered, just before her breath disappeared and her limbs turned light as air.

She heard a distant, “Little bird, no—” 

But the black spots became shadows, and the shadows overtook everything. 

### Sandor

It took more willpower to keep his face blank than Sandor would have liked, but he succeeded, despite his little bird's weeping. 

Then she went pale, her features vacant. 

She fainted. 

Before he could stop himself, Sandor called out and rushed to catch her. She landed in his arms and Arya’s arms in time, though the boy princess’s sinewy limbs shook under her sister’s weight.

Lady Stoneheart bid Brienne to carry Sansa to her room, and so the female knight descended from her position beside the throne, scooping the maiden up with a pointed leer at Sandor. 

He stepped aside, averse to squabbling with the ugly maid of Tarth. Her steps thudded across the hall with cloying cadence, then she was gone. 

Sandor remained in front of the mistress of Harrenhal, Arya at his side. 

The undead queen dragged her eyes over Sandor. They narrowed. 

“Sandor Clegane…" She rasped. “What is it that you desire?”

“I’m going to the king, bending the knee, and hunting my brother.” Sandor responded, not mincing words. 

Lem guffawed. “The Mountain’s dead, Hound. Long dead. Died in a duel with the Martell prince, ah, years ago.” 

The familiar wash of heat flickered across Sandor’s burns. 

Dead? 

Someone fucking killed his brother? They had the audacity to steal Sandor’s honor, his only chance for revenge. 

Fuck that. 

His fist tightened, eager to meet any flesh that should dare to get in its way. 

“Yes, it’s true.” Stoneheart confirmed. “They sent his skull to Dorne. It’s finished.” 

Sandor opened his mouth, dozens of questions begged an answer, but no words could pass. It was finished. 

“Sorry,” Arya muttered, raising her shoulders in tame consolation. 

He exhaled his defeat. 

Dead, in a duel. It should have been him. Only he should have gotten the pleasure to end his brother’s life. His blood boiled hot in his veins—he needed to leave. He needed to get Stranger and ride, somewhere, anywhere. Did the keep even fucking matter if he didn’t earn it? 

Sandor turned to leave, not waiting to be dismissed, but Arya called out. 

“Send Sandor.” 

He pivoted on his heel and glared daggers at the young Stark. 

“Send Sandor,” Arya repeated, moving her eye from Sandor to Stoneheart. “Send Sandor to King’s Landing with Sansa. He’s going there anyway.” 

Stoneheart brought a knobby finger to her chin, sunk her curled nail in sagging flesh.

“Yes, of course. A loyal beast, a bygone shadow..." Her voice slithered from her throat, and her gaunt head reeled on her spine. "You shall join the escort...bend the knee in the Red Keep. It will do." 

Before Sandor could reply, her head snapped up and she issued,"Go now. Lem, take him to his quarters and to the armory. He should need a full suit for the journey. You’ll ride in no more than two day’s time.” 

Lem attempted dispute, then bowed. “As you wish, my lady.” 

He pushed past Sandor and led the way across the hall, a grim expanse of black stone, bright hearths, and imposing sculpture. Arya trailed at Sandor’s heels, hovering like a fly. 

“Sorry,” she whispered to Sandor’s back, “but you’ll get your keep then, without fighting.” 

He grunted. 

“Well, you were already going south,” she pressed, struggling to keep up with Sandor’s long strides. “And besides, it’s for Sansa’s sake.” 

“And why would that tempt me, boy?” Sandor relented, his voice dripping with spite. 

“Oh, you know why, don’t pretend. She told me herself.” 

“Told you what?” 

“You protected her the entire time.” 

They passed through the great stone arch of the doorway, where Lem waited. Sandor turned his back to the yellow-cloaked man. 

“I only did what I was asked. The leader of the sept asked a favor. He took a liking to the girl, and the timing worked. That’s all. Pure happenstance.” 

Arya grinned—Gods, these people were always fucking laughing at him—and said, “I wasn’t talking about your little romp in the riverlands. You protected her in the Red Keep after father died. She hasn’t forgotten, Sandor.”

His jaw twitched. 

“And you’d be an absolute cunt to leave her behind.” Arya charged, before offering self-satisfied shrug and disappearing down the corridor. 

Sandor’s burns had surely cracked open—a hot trickle of blood smarted his ruined skin. He’d need to tend to them later. For now, he turned to Lem. 

“Get me some fucking armor.” 

\--

After a few miserable hours in the company of the brothers without banners, Sandor sat alone in his new bedchamber. Lem had guided him up the winding staircase of the Widow’s Tower, pushed him down the corridor at the eighth landing, then told him to pick any room that wasn’t claimed and leave a totem at the door, so he didn’t forget its location. Sandor scoffed. He wouldn’t forget. 

He found an empty room, small, dark, cold. It fit a mattress cradled by an ancient wooden bed frame, a hearth, and a washstand. Better than the inn and certainly better than sleeping in the snow.

To think he survived sleeping outside the entrance to Sansa’s tent for what—four nights? Five? He couldn't remember. He was simply glad to be indoors. 

Sandor struck flint and started a fire in the hearth; the room burst with light. 

He fell onto the bed. 

_ Fuck this_, he thought. _ Fuck it all _. 

It was all over. Gregor’s life, and his own life by extension. He lived to avenge his burns. What did he live for now? 

Lem had discovered the man who marauded as the Hound after Sandor’s supposed death. Rorge had stolen his hound’s helmet atop his makeshift grave, raided Saltpans, then raped a slew of innocent women, the goddamn cunt. 

But Lem recovered the helmet and brought it to Harrenhal, where it collected dust in the armory for however many years. Sandor loathed talk of spirits and ghosts, but that helmet had waited for him. The hollowed eyes bore into him, past his flesh, into the squalor beneath. 

Fuck that fucking helmet. 

Sandor grunted and stared at the barren stone wall. 

He had taken it from the armory. He held it now, cradled in the crook of his arm. Gregor died, and yet Sandor hadn’t escaped this curse, his burns, his life as a hound. 

Gregor was dead. 

Fuck. 

Sandor craved the release of bloodshed. He wanted to empty the guts of those who did him wrong, but there was no one to kill here. He only had men to kill when he served the Lannisters. When he was the Hound. In his present life as Sandor, he escorted maidens across the kingdom. He received their unwarranted affection and listened to their dreams, weakly hoping to play a part in them. 

Sansa weakened him, but it didn’t matter, his brother was dead. He had no one to fight. He had no reason to be strong. He’d ride south, of course, and beg for his keep. Then he’d spend the winter out west, doing fuck all. Raising dogs, teaching local boys how to wield steel. Surviving. 

His heart laid heavy in his chest and bore down on his chest and lungs. Drawing breath was cumbersome. He didn’t want to survive. This was no life. 

Sandor thought of the lake, the Gods Eye. It bordered the southern wall of Harrenhal, an endless pit of black water. He thought of the castle walls, decrepit, but sheer. A long way to fall. 

Sandor wouldn’t sleep tonight, so he took his helmet, and made his way back to the spiral staircase and up to the ramparts. He didn’t expect the walkway to be intact. From a distance the walls seemed to melt back into the earth, but Sandor exited the tower and found solid stone underfoot. He didn’t walk far. 

He ducked against the inner parapet and looked out at the Gods Eye. 

Oh, if the Gods were real, this could certainly be their eye. The lake leered up at the sky, reflecting the nothingness of night. Did the Gods know of nothingness? How else could they have created such empty landscapes? The Stranger knew of vacancy, of infinite darkness, of the desire to cease to exist. 

Sandor craved darkness. He wanted the thoughts to end, and worse than the thoughts, he wanted the feelings to end. Gregor was dead, but Sandor’s burns scalded his skin as if he were a child again. He may as well bury his face in flame for all the pain he experienced, to no end, to infinity. The Gods had given him boundless suffering, and for what? Sandor had thought his scars existed for the sole purpose of vengeance.

But now, he was meant only to suffer. With every fiber of his being, Sandor hated the Gods. He hated this shit mind inside a shit skull, wrapped in blackened skin. He had no purpose. 

Sandor exhaled a shaky breath. A salty tear bit at the corner of his eye. 

He needed to protect her. 

Fuck. 

Of all the cruelty of the Gods, why did they send her, his little bird? He couldn't leave her behind in this vast pit of blackness, which would surely swallow her up.

She had already been taken by the Stranger. A few nights ago by the fire she worried she’d die alone in a frostbitten eastern field, but she wasn’t alone. He sat by her side, begging the Gods that she’d find comfort in the night. 

Sandor reclined his head against the cold stone wall and grappled for breath. He should go south with her. He was a fool, but he’d be a worse fool if he didn’t follow Stoneheart's command to accompany her daughter. The princess. 

Could he endure her company for another quarter moon? 

He wanted to escape her and all her girlish afflictions. The unbidden heat in his blood. The cloying sickness. She asked silly questions and shared silly thoughts, filling silence with inane chatter. 

But Sandor dreaded her absence, the silence. She shone so brightly with her hair of flame and pearly skin; she cast away darkness with a mere turn of the lips. 

Fuck. 

That _ feeling _ clawed from his gut up to his heart. Sandor knew, then, he should fall. Men fell from walls all the time, when blood and battle broke their spirits, and the curtain walls of Harrenhal made the Red Keep’s walls seem a handkerchief. How many miles to the mist shrouded ground? How quickly could his skull shatter? 

Sandor swallowed, the helmet heavy in his arm. 

He stared into the Gods Eye. Three steps across the walk, one leap over the wall, and the pain would disappear. He pulled in a seething lungful of winter air, accepting that it would be his last. 

Three steps, one leap, darkness.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa comes to Sandor's rescue. 
> 
> Chapter track: Soap&Skin - Athom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, you ever write a chapter that you love so dearly and can never seem to perfect? That's this chapter. Enjoy!

### Sansa

Sansa woke in a sea of black fur, drowning in warmth. She twisted her limbs to search for a way to the surface, but her head felt light and fuzzy as cotton blossoms, and her arms were as useful as soggy straw. Every drop of moisture had vacated her throat. 

Eventually she found air, though it was thick with dust. A macabre assortment of dark walnut furnishings set in a room of four towering stone walls greeted her. She no longer wore her blue dress. Someone had replaced it with a cotton chemise the color of fresh butter. 

Harrenhal, she remembered. She had seen her mother. She would go south, tell her brother of Littlefinger. She had _ felt _ Littlefinger. She fainted. They must have brought her to this grand and grim room, with its moth-eaten burgundy upholstery and a ravenous hearth two times Sandor's height. 

Sandor—he wouldn't have left without her, right? Arya offered up his escort to King's Landing, but Sansa couldn't recall if he accepted. 

He could be long gone. 

Sansa's empty stomach screamed its hunger. The sky beyond the cavernous window well was dark grey and starless. Sansa wanted to sink back into her bedding and rest until the end of time, until she didn't feel her heavy heart and hollow belly, and there was nothing but dust to fill her lungs. Still, she breathed. 

Pia, a timid maid with tangles of dark hair and a gaunt complexion, entered to call her to dinner at Arya's behest. When Sansa hesitated, the girl proffered a pewter goblet of water, then threw open doors of a massive wardrobe to reveal a trove of jewel-toned clothing. Within minutes, she had Sansa dressed in a simple black wool gown with long open sleeves, tied at the waist with a delicate silver girdle. 

Forgoing refinement, Sansa let her hair drop over her shoulders in great waves down to her hips. She strapped her dagger over the girdle.

No one could stop her. 

So Pia accompanied her new mistress down the winding steps of Widow's Tower and through a series of serpentine corridors with scales of slate and sconces for eyes. Sansa asked the maid for ribbons. 

“I’ll set them in your room for later, your grace,” was her reply. 

Sansa lamented the absence of Sandor's warmth and guidance. 

She told herself not to cry before dinner. 

Sansa arrived to the vast dining hall equipped with more nausea than hunger and a deceptive lightness in her head. Only a smattering of men filled the lengthy benches, all in mismatched colors and armor. A brotherhood without banners, and not a scary lot. Some brothers offered respectful nods of their heads as Sansa passed, others smirked and elbowed their companions to force their attention, but no one japed or whistled.

Sansa joined her sister at her side, and Arya grinned her greeting through a mouthful of quail. They no longer had a Septa to scold such base manners, but they also lacked lord husbands for censure. Sansa didn't mind. 

Aside from the platter of roast quail, a dish of herbed carrots and a loaf of brown bread decorated the table. Sansa cut a meager slice of bread for herself, then eased an ambitious measure of nut brown ale into a goblet. It would do for a meal. 

Sansa nursed her drink and scanned the room. 

Sandor wasn't there. 

Instead, she noticed an eerily familiar face, three tables away. Jaime Lannister sat with her mother's woman knight, Brienne. A linen wrapped stump had replaced his sword hand, so he ate with the other, and sat in apparent silence with his homely companion. He found her eye for the smallest second, and Sansa's blood prickled. 

“Why is _ he _ here?” Sansa frowned into her untouched bread. 

“Oh, our dear Kingslayer? Funny story, that,” Arya began, flashing and swallowing a lump of bread. “Well, you won’t find it so funny, but I think it’s hilarious. Brienne brought him to mother to prove her loyalty—she was almost hung by the brotherhood—and when she presented Jaime, mother took out his tongue.”

Sansa gasped. A merciless punishment, even if the Lannisters deserved it. 

“That’s not all," Arya continued. "She cut off his...you know…" She dropped diffident eyes to her lap. "..._manhood._” 

"Oh," Sansa raised her fingers to her lips to stifle her bewilderment, then wondered aloud, "Why can't she do that to Littlefinger?" 

Arya snorted a mouthful of ale into her hand and it spilled onto her immodest collection of quail bones. She managed a strained, "That's quite grim coming from you, princess,” then cleaned her face with her sleeve. To Sansa's weary face she offered, "Look, I can't say for certain how Stoneheart chooses her punishments, but the rumors were true, about Jaime and Cersei. And mother seems to believe that Jaime was the one who pushed Bran from the tower all those years ago. So with Tywin and Cersei dead, punishing Jaime came with little consequence.” 

Sansa sipped her ale instead of replying. She didn't care about consequences. She refused to believe Littlefinger had the support of those foreign men, ready and willing to deliver their wrath to her brother's kingdom. She especially didn't want to play a part in bringing him to justice, no matter which appendage would have to be sacrificed to achieve it. 

"Stoneheart is queen, you know. She delivers commands; she plots and schemes. It's all she can do in her...state. But she's been waiting to get Littlefinger. I think…" Arya picked a stray parsley leaf out of her teeth with her pinky, then continued, "I think Bran told her to wait."

"I don't want to see Littlefinger again," Sansa whined into her cup. "I want to be free like you." 

"Oh, hush. You'll be fine, Sansa. You have the entire realm to protect you. And free? I'm at mother's beck and call. Would you rather spend your days hunting vagrants in the dead of winter?" 

"No," she sighed. "I don't want to travel. I don't want to fight. I just want to be home. I want my friends and my gowns and a new pair of silken slippers." 

"There are friends in King's Landing." 

"Who?" Sansa demanded. 

"Jeyne. Jeyne Poole." 

The crust of bread that Sansa hauled to her lips fell to the table, and she clapped her newly freed hand to her open mouth. Water filled her eyes. 

Jeyne, alive? It was too good to be true. 

"Aye, she lives. She's been through all Seven hells, but she survived up north. Jon and Theon escorted her down to the Red Keep a couple moons ago. She's worried for you. I'm sure she'd be delighted to attend you in court." 

"I—I would be delighted to have her," Sansa managed. "Who else is there, at the Keep?" 

"Uncle Brynden is the Hand; Swann is captain of the Guard. They have the Martell prince, Trystane, and there's, let's see…Willas Tyrell, and one of the Ambrose men. Hell, I can't remember all of them." Arya pushed a hand through her already tousled hair, then shot Sansa a rueful look. "But, er, Tyrion is there."

"No!" Sansa shouted and subsequently garnered the attention of the surrounding brothers. In a harried whisper, she asked, "Why?" 

Arya shrugged. "Bran spared him. The imp curried favor with the lessor lords of the Westerlands and the Reach. He's the head of House Lannister, Warden of the West, and master of coin. He's made himself rather...indispensable, I suppose. He's perfectly amiable, though, for a Lannister."

"But what about—""Oh, don't worry." Arya waved a limp carrot in front of Sansa's baleful face, then bit down on its tip. "Your marriage is long over. Dunno who they're going to try to match you with next—I couldn't care less, personally." 

Sansa pouted at her stupid sliver of bread and wrung her hands in lap. She didn't want to see Tyrion, and she especially didn't want to be married. Was that all that awaited for in King's Landing? Shameful ghosts of memory and the prospect of forced betrothal? 

"Don't be so sour. Isn't that what you always wanted, a dashing prince? You could have your pick of all the lords in the realm." 

"No," Sansa answered through clenched teeth. "I don't want a prince or a lord." She surveyed the hall once more, then asked, "Where's Sandor?" 

Arya lips curled into a sportive smirk. "Oh, don't tell you want to give your hand to—" 

"No—" Sansa blurted. A full blush surged to her cheeks, and she collected her scattered wits as fast as she could. "I simply meant to say I hope he hasn't left Harrenhal." 

“I’m only teasing," Arya simpered. "He’s not gone yet. He's going to King's Landing with you, remember?" 

"He accepted?" Sansa asked in a small voice. 

"Hah, of course he accepted. He's soft under all that—" Arya swept a hand over one half of her face. "—darkness. And don't try to pretend otherwise." 

“Oh, Seven forbid, I know." Sansa drained her goblet and promptly refilled it, despite the potent glow of drunkenness on her skin and the ache of liquid in her stomach. “Sandor's the one pretending. He was soft all the while, back in the Red Keep. I couldn't see at the time—his manners were so rough, and the scars—but I was so blind. I'm still so blind." 

“Sansa," Arya solicited, unflinching. "What happened in the Keep?” 

“Nothing, really," Sansa lied, because there was too much say, and she could barely begin to understand each stolen moment between the two of them. 

Sansa drank. 

She thought of those moments, too. Each one had excited her, whether it be with fright, or shock, or on rare occasions, awe and that inconceivable lightness. He kept her closer than he should have. He cornered her too often, gripped her cheek too tenderly, and betrayed his own woe with shining eyes. But _ why? _Why her? 

Sansa lured in all sorts of men, and Sandor was no exception, a pitiful moth drawn to the flame of her hair, doomed to unleash his ugliness on her. But he wasn't ugly like all the other men. He didn't grope, or pinch, or fondle. He didn't breathe unbridled lust onto her lips. 

He never struck her. 

Instead, his anguish robbed Sansa of steady breath and blood. It made her knees weak; it made her all her bones eager to sink into stone and never resurface. Not for fright. For the acutest sorrow she had ever known. A featherlight, immaterial burden. 

Sansa could think only of what she told Tansy. _ He isn't one of the bad men. _

Her ale had somehow vanished. Arya observed her with a quizzical brow. 

"Tell me what happened the night of the battle. You know what I'm talking about."

It wasn't a question. 

Sansa hiccuped. She had never spoken that story into existence. 

"Come on," her sister pushed with an impatient swirl of her hand. 

"Fine," Sansa conceded. She cradled her goblet tense in her hands and said, "Sandor came to my chambers that night, but it didn’t seem like night, Arya. The castle was bright with green flame; it came in through the windows and painted the walls. And Sandor…” Sansa shut her eyes, and he was there again, tall, dark, weak. “He was drunk. He was afraid. He couldn’t—he couldn’t escape the flame. So he came to me. He offered to take me, said he wouldn’t let anyone hurt me, but I declined. He took a song instead.” Warm tears stung the corner of her eyes, and Sansa eased them away with her fingertips. She couldn't bear to look on her sister, so she spoke to a bleak knot of wood in the table that glared up at her. "He kissed me," she whispered. "He kissed me and left. I wish I had gone with him." 

“Sansa,” Arya probed. “Is Sandor, I don't know, in love?” 

Sansa jerked upright and shook her head. “Arya—no—that’s absolutely ridiculous. He told me himself, everyone he loves is dead.” 

“I only ask because—”

“Save it, really." Sansa pushed up from the table but found poor balance after all the ale. Hot blood filled her face, and each throb threatened to rupture her skull. "I know what it sounds like, stealing a kiss with no one around, but that’s not how it was. He wasn’t in his right mind that night. I don't even know that he would remember.” 

“But you wanted to go with him?” Arya pressed. 

“I only said that because I know him now. He makes me feel safe. I shouldn’t mind having his protection my whole life. Is that what you wanted to hear, then?” Sansa attempted severity, but her voice cracked and went wet. Arya sensed her weakness, as she always did. Her grey eyes shone, and her brows furrowed over a wicked grin. She snatched up Sansa's wrist.

"Look," she spat. "I'm sure he'd fall over himself to be your little pet. It's written all over his fucked up face."

"Arya!" Sansa cried, uselessly tugging her slight wrist from her sister's vise-like grip. "He's not—I don't want him to be—and his face is fine the way it is." 

Arya let her go and lifted her hands in capricious surrender. "Seven hells, I hope you get better at pretending. I hope Sandor gets better at it too. You'll have a shit time in King's Landing if you don't." 

"I'll have a shit time if I have to deal with you," Sansa rebuked.

"Oh, don't worry, I'm not going." 

"What?" 

Arya folded her arms and another insipid little grin infused all her dull features. "I was never going to come with you. I'm staying here. Broken men, family duty, remember?" 

Sansa must have worn her dismay on her face, because Arya was quick to add, "Don't act like you'll miss me. It doesn't even matter. They'll have you married off to the highest bidder in no time, and who knows where you'll be then. Highgarden? The Old Palace? Casterly Rock, perhaps? Gods know you'll never be so lucky as to be the lady of Clegane's Keep." 

Sansa reeled as if Arya's words were made of more than air, but she regained her footing and responded, "You're right, I won't miss you, but it's not like I have a sister anyway. You're nothing but a boorish little brother who thinks only of fighting and killing. I'll be glad to get out of this horrible crypt of a castle. I'd rather marry the imp three times over than spend another day with you." 

The smirk melted from Arya's face, and before it could reappear, Sansa tore away through the clusters of benches and tables out to the main corridor. 

How could Arya speak so boldly? 

She knew nothing of Sandor. Sansa had grown fond of him, and she didn't need to pretend otherwise. She could surround herself with whomever she pleased. 

Sansa huffed. 

_ No_, she thought. _ I can't_. 

Arya was right. Princesses didn't befriend swordsmen. They didn't deliver their own hand. 

Princesses did as they were told. They wore pretty gowns and produced pretty curtsies. They said the right things and smiled at the right times. Then they bled, got married, and tended their brood until their skin sagged and hair greyed, all within the confines of a pretty little prison. 

The Eyrie, the Red Keep, Harrenhal. They trapped Sansa all the same. 

As she wound up a dark tower, loneliness settled in her bones. She had no one. Nothing. Nowhere to go. Her sobs stuck in her throat, so she whimpered as she tottered around the coils of strange, black steps. She had forgotten the way. 

The torches leered at her. The drink dizzied her. The walls slumped and dropped great slabs of stone in her path. Sansa coerced her aching limbs over each obstacle, ignoring the clangor of her pulse. She went faster. 

The walls were collapsing, she realized, right before her eyes. She could only go up. She needed air. Sansa scrambled over another pile of debris to a series of mostly crumbled steps, nothing but gaping emptiness underneath. So she slid with her back against rough stone, one foot at a time, to where dim starlight glittered in the distance. 

She would make it. 

Only the last stair withered under her weight. Sansa clawed the wall to find balance, but her nail snapped, and she landed at the top of the tower on her hands and knees. The unyielding stone shocked her joints and poached the air from her lungs. She gasped to steal it back, then let out a sob. The top third of the nail on her middle finger was missing. Bright blood spilled out in its place. Sansa crawled across the landing to lean against the wall, then nursed her wound while waiting for her heartbeat to slow. 

The walls weren't falling. They were in a perpetual state of decay, shedding one slow brick at a time, and Sansa would have to find another way to descend. For now, she sulked and shivered. Her cloak, the pitiful brown thing spared by the brothers of the Quiet Isle, was many floors down, trapped in her vault of a room. 

She peered out to the walk, which stretched undamaged into the distant night. A murky shape emerged from the shadow of the parapets and glinted in the moonlight. 

A man—no, a knight—in soot-black armor. 

Sandor. 

He took a broad step to the outer battlements and gripped a jut of stone with his steel gauntlet. 

"Sandor," Sansa muttered to no effect. She peeled herself from the dusty ground and slunk out of the tower. "Sandor," she tried again. 

He made to lift his boot into the opening, and Sansa shouted, "Sandor!"

He dropped his foot and turned. The outline of her name crested his lips, and he moved toward her, a twisted mass of metal tucked in the crook of his steel-plated arm. _ His hound's helm. _

Sansa shuffled meekly forward until Sandor caught her by the shoulder. He breathed, "What's the matter, little bird? What are you doing here?" 

"I got lost," she pouted. "I don't have any ribbons." 

Sandor tucked a gloved finger under her chin and lifted her head. His eyes were softer than Sansa expected—they shone like silver under his upward pressed brow—and a curtain of clean hair concealed his burns.

"What happened to your hand?"

"Oh—" Sansa looked to her battered finger, cradled in the palm of her good hand. The sting had somehow disappeared for a few brief seconds. "I fell going up the tower. I was frightened." 

"Little bird," he reprimanded, gently. "You ought to be more careful." 

Sandor took up her hand and examined the wound. The bleeding had slowed, but the remaining stub of nail was a ghastly sight. 

"It's not so bad," Sandor answered her compulsive grimace. "Here." He retrieved a handkerchief from his belt and wrapped it around her fingers. "Hold it there 'til we can get you a proper bandage." 

Sansa shivered in reply. 

"Seven hells, take this." 

Sandor tore off his cloak and dropped it onto Sansa's shoulders. The black wool laid heavy and warm on her skin, and the essence of smoky pine met her nose. She inhaled all she could. 

"Better?" Sandor asked. 

"Better," she replied. 

"Let's get you back. The flanking towers are in decent shape."

Sandor pivoted to march down the walk. Sansa hurried to his side, then laced her arm in his to temper his pace. He gave her a sedate look. 

"Sandor," she began cautiously. "Why are you up here?" 

"Came to see the lake." 

Sansa looked to her left, where black water spread across the land like a blanket of dragon glass. She felt naked on this decrepit perch, under the hallowed stare of the Gods Eye. The walk was far too high, too close to the realm of the divine, and the view was much too vast. 

The silence that spilled from its surface was a dark song, and it met with the thrum of her pulse to herald her mortality. Sansa drank the night air in shallow doses. 

"It's breathtaking," she said after a while.

"That's one way to put it." 

Sansa sighed, "Were you going to leave, Sandor?" 

The question unfurled and lingered before them. He was dressed to ride, to disappear over the obscure horizon and never return. Sansa stilled the quiver of her lip with a bite. 

Surely he wouldn't do that to her. 

Eventually, he surrendered, "I thought about it, little bird, but no, not tonight." 

"I'm glad. I missed you at dinner." 

"I wasn't in the mood," Sandor snapped. When Sansa wilted, he recovered, "Did you eat?" 

"There was quail, and carrots, and bread..." she started, then with downcast eyes she confessed, "I only drank ale, though. Then I fought with Arya and ran away." 

Sandor chuckled, "She can be quite the pest. Burrows under your skin and bites." 

Sansa gave a weak smile. She liked the way his eyes twinkled in time to his ephemeral grinning, like silver starlight. Their gentle shine brightened his entire face, even the black and red crags on the left. If she looked at them long enough, his burns were placid too. Nothing was more vulnerable than open wound. Sandor couldn't hide, not even behind the plush velvet hair that fell to his shoulders. It was thicker, sleeker than Sansa had realized. 

She turned back to the path with rosy cheeks. When her heartbeat calmed, she asked, "Did everything go well with Lady Stoneheart?" 

His haggard breath and a clenched fist answered Sansa's question, but Sandor courteously managed, "He's dead. Gregor's dead." In a whisper he added a terse, "Fuck." 

"I'm so sorry," Sansa comforted, drawing Sandor's steel-plated arm in closer. "You'll get your keep, though, and you won't have to fight."

"Doesn't fucking matter," he said bitterly. "Nothing matters." 

_ That's not true, _Sansa wanted to say, but she couldn't get the words past her tongue, because she understood. The world was dark, filled with untold horror, unbearable pain. More people to hate than to love. Sansa was lucky. Her loved ones had survived. 

She had resisted the temptation to pass through the moon door many times over. Her heart dangled by the thread of hope that someone would save her, that her siblings lived, that she could go home. 

The Gods spared her, but she would now walk a narrow path of her family's design for the rest of time. Did her life matter if she chose nothing for herself? If a series of meddlesome hands carried her through the rest of her days? 

Loved or not, she lived within the perimeter of an invisible holdfast. 

Nothing had changed. 

The winter air chilled Sansa's lungs. It froze a tear that eased down her reddened face and turned her fingers stiff. The Gods Eye reflected the moon and stars, a false double night that swallowed up the castle walk. Sansa pressed her cheek against Sandor's arm. The cold metal stung, but she feared she would float away like a speck of stardust without him. 

"Stoneheart asked something of me, little bird," Sandor said with an uncharacteristic tenderness, and he stared down at Sansa with mild eyes to match. “She wants me to accompany you to King's Landing." 

Sansa would have responded, but her heart lept into her throat and loitered. It was just as she had hoped. He would stay by her side. 

"I told her I would come. She's sending a full escort, of course, but she requested my support." 

"Oh, Sandor," Sansa hummed. "I would be honored. I so hoped we wouldn't part ways so soon." 

"No need for flattery, little bird. Seems my duty is not yet complete, that's all." 

“Sandor—”

Sansa stagnated and let her arm slip from his. He took another few steps before turning to face her, and every ounce of air escaped her lips. 

Here was rescue, she thought. 

Sandor stood tall in his ashen armor, his broad frame both a mirror of darkness and a shield from it. He looked a full knight. He looked a full hero. But Sandor didn’t care for those things, those courtly labels that were solid as smoke. He abided a different code. He saw through Sansa’s glass cage, he plied the bars and settled close to her heart.

She had an acute sense of being known. Of being seen. It chilled her down to her bones but sent fresh blood to her cheeks. She was safe, held in Sandor’s fervent gaze. She could sing her truth and he would only tie himself tighter in her heartstrings. 

Sandor took two broad strides and stopped so close that Sansa had to lift her chin to behold him. His breath fell in swirling white clouds to the crown of her head. "What's the matter, little bird?" 

“Sandor, I refuse, I simply refuse,” she began. “My words may be silly songs you've heard before, but they aren’t empty. I refuse to believe that they fall tuneless on your ears."

"I never thought, shhh, come now," Sandor raised his gauntlet and smeared a tear from her cheek with a biting brush of his thumb. He dropped his hand too soon. “I've never known such sweet sound. It's a strange bounty after all my years, but it's a far cry better than silence." 

His grey eyes flashed like drawn steel and bounded across Sansa’s face. The burnt corner of his lips twitched. He was listening. 

He would hear her plaintive hymn.

“I’m lonely, Sandor," she lamented. "I’m lonely and I’m lost. It’s all so dark—I can’t see the way home, and I’m terrified you’ll leave me behind. You’re the only warmth I know.” 

Sandor didn't reply. He threw his gaze past Sansa, out to the Gods Eye. The reflection of black water danced in his eyes and drowned any trace of light. 

Sansa knew, suddenly. The lake called to Sandor. It breathed its morbid lullaby in his ear and captured his spirit. He wanted to dissolve in its depths.

His silence hurt. 

"Please, say something,” she near begged. 

“Sansa," he breathed above her head. "I’ll take you to your kin. They’ll keep you warm.”

“You're indifferent,” she repined. 

Sansa looked down to her hands, where she cradled the lame one tenderly in the other. A dark spot of blood had seeped through the bright cotton. 

_ Another ugly wound. _A drop of water fell onto the bandage. She smoothed over the stain with a shaky touch, then pinched it. Her face twisted, more water fell, but she only pressed harder, hard enough to feel her pulse ache in her fingertips. 

“No." Sandor swept up her wounded hand and sealed it inside his gauntlet, then closed the minute gap between them. "Far from it, little bird.” His voice was firm, but anguish slipped through the cracks. “All I know is battle and bloodshed. I don't have pretty words. I don't have pretty stories and pretty feelings to share in the night. My mind is but ash and flame, and it screams. It’s no song. It's nothing for a maiden to know. I would be loath to inflict upon you this carrion curse of bright shadow and barren heat...it's not suited for such gentle company. It's an ugly burden." 

Sansa set her free hand on the dark metal of his breastplate, and a grey halo of condensation skirted her fingers. She rested there, on the rigid veil that guarded his heart. Only something much sharper than a sword, more exact than a knife, could penetrate such merciless steel and bring his pulse closer. 

“If it’s ugly…" she whispered to their shared cloud of breath. "If it’s a burden, I will bear it gladly. Your company is no curse to me. It’s solace, and I want you by my side.” 

Sansa lifted her chin, let her lips rest in a smile. 

Sandor's dark hair shielded his face and lapsed at her temples, so she gathered the stray locks, like liquid silk, and tucked them behind his right ear. She cupped the rigid contour of his jaw. 

His face was no ruin.

He had a full brow, a strong nose with a crook in its middle. His cheekbones roosted proud and high just underneath his fearsome eyes. There was a scar that ran the length of his right cheek. A thin white line, a mark of battle. Sansa had seen this picture in her storybooks. Dark, sculpted features worn with the ghosts of gore and glory. No matter what demons lurked beneath, no ugliness breached his skin. He had the look of a hero, the indomitable beauty of the warrior. 

Sansa wanted him close. She smoothed her thumb over the blanket of stubble on Sandor's cheek, lifted her heels, and pressed her lips to the corner of his jaw. She lingered. She inhaled the smell of salt and pine on his skin, let the warmth of her cheek find his. 

When Sansa pulled away, she watched her reflection glisten in his eye, where her pale skin and fiery hair had replaced the murk of the Gods. She noticed his mouth, too. It carried unblemished and singed flesh alike, a coalescence of softness and severity, light and dark. 

She wanted his lips. She wanted to feel their press and draw smoke from his skin. 

Sandor pulled away. His hair fell back into place, and he released Sansa's bandaged hand. It settled cold at her side. 

"Time for bed, little bird," Sandor grumbled. He turned towards the tower and repeated into the bleak night, "Time for bed." 

He didn't look back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🔥🔥🔥 low and slow 🔥🔥🔥
> 
> Sometimes I'm amazed that I've taken people this far in the story because (spoiler alert) it's still many thousands of words before their lips meet. And that's just the way it's gonna be lol. In case you haven't noticed, I'm writing the story with both Sansa and Sandor rejecting out of the hand the notion that they could or should ever end up in love, or worse, _Married_. Sandor just doesn't know how tf love works and is deferential to the fate of Sansa's hand despite his contempt of courtly procedure. Meanwhile, Sansa has been through the Fucking Wringer when it comes to men and can't find her voice... 
> 
> YET.
> 
> Anyway those are my hot takes on my own story. Thank you for reading whoever's out there 💖


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor roams Harrenhal. 
> 
> Chapter track: Hobo Johnson - Ugly Kid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha y'all are gonna love this one 🤗

### Sandor

Sandor's time at Harrenhal could have been worse. 

The brotherhood without banners had assembled a mummer's court to command the dark beast of a castle. They obeyed a tangled hierarchy, and the castlefolk came and went with scant formality. Sandor liked the productive chaos. He was left alone. He spent his days as he pleased. 

He broke his fast that morning with Sansa and Arya. Sansa had taken to wearing a new dress every day, spoils from mistresses long dead. Today she wore sapphire velvet. The bodice was low, the laces achingly tight. A crown of plaits rested atop her head, fixed in place with a silver comb. 

She smiled too much. 

She ate a pomegranate, one bright seed at a time. 

Sandor's breath came fast and his barley pottage swam in his belly, but he ate. He ate and avoided Sansa's eye. 

What business did a swordsman have with a princess? She had come to his rescue on the walk, spared him his one step down, and her words, her delicate touch on the good side of his face, her sweet kiss—all of it haunted him.

_ If it’s ugly, _ she had said, _ if it’s a burden_, and the sentiment curdled his blood. 

He had taken her to her room. She lingered in front of the door. She offered her hand goodnight, and Sandor delivered a kiss, though he could have swallowed her whole. Drowned in the tide of her abundant hair. Sandor liked when she left it down, but he also liked her carefully arranged braids, not a curl out of place. He imagined undoing them, one fiery lock at a time. 

Arya smacked Sandor's arm and issued a withering look. 

"What?" He deadpanned. 

"I said, _ if you were listening_, that you're going to spar with me." 

"And why would I do that?" 

"Afraid of being beaten by a wee maiden, hm?" Arya pushed up from the table and dusted a near full loaf's worth of crumbs from her tunic. "Come on then, I'll be in the yard. And don't even think about putting on your armor. We'll make a true match of it." 

The boy princess stole from the dining hall without another word. Sandor groaned. 

"She's the worst, isn't she?" Sansa pulled her ruby painted lips into a coy smirk. 

"Aye, a real thorn," Sandor muttered into his cup of breakfast ale, then set it on the table with a thunk. "I should probably go. She might have my head otherwise, not that I would mind." 

"But I would," Sansa replied.

"You're too sweet," he scoffed. 

Sansa batted her lashes, eased a small jewel of fruit into her mouth, then swallowed. 

"I'm sweet enough." 

Sandor's blood had barely cooled by the time he arrived in the yard. Flowstone Yard, they called it, for whatever fucking reason. The grass was yellow and lumpy, mostly frozen and otherwise muddy. Arya pranced about in the center, attacking invisible opponents, somersaulting like a veritable fool. 

She cartwheeled to Sandor and nestled the tip of her sword in his black leather jerkin before he could lay a hand on his grip. He met her puckish stare with a scowl, curled a bare fist around her blade, and cast it aside. 

"Try me," he goaded. 

So she did. Arya's moves flowed like water in contrast to Sandor's bursts and flares. Where she had slippery grace, he had brute strength. So he countered her light-footed lunges with forceful parries, and she turned his parries into openings for furtive strikes. He broke into satisfying sweat. She wasn't terrible. 

Arya pounced and sent her blade through the yielding wool of the breeches, catching the skin at the side of Sandor's thigh. 

"Watch it," he warned. 

Sandor fell back a step and aimed a blow at her waist, but her sword clashed with his, and she drew a step closer. Over their crossed blades she jeered, "Is that how you'll keep my sister safe then? With these sorry moves?" 

Sandor withdrew and put too much weight into his next lunge. Arya dodged him with an easy step to the side. 

"You're sure to impress," she smirked, then went for his leg again. He blocked.

"Fuck you." 

"Aw, such gentle manners. I bet she can't get enough of them." 

“Don’t fucking start with me.” Sandor found an opening and smacked Arya's right arm with the flat side of his blade. 

"Hey!" Arya lowered Needle and rubbed the future site of a nasty bruise. She thrust a spurious pout at Sandor. "I was only trying to help." 

"Help? I don't need your fucking help." 

Arya rolled her eyes. "What do you two even talk about? Joffrey's bedwetting? Slynt's foul breath? Tyrion's tiny cock?" 

"Fuck this." 

Sandor stalked across the yard, dragging his blade at his side and uprooting clumps of grass as he went. Was his care for the little bird so obvious? He needed to stop looking at her damn hair. She needed to stop giggling, offering soft looks and softer words. 

Arya lagged at his heels. "So you spent a quarter moon, alone, in the riverlands, in complete silence?" 

"Aye," Sandor growled, his head forward and his mouth in a hard line. He cursed his previous praise of the girl prince's bold speech. He didn't need this fucking mockery. 

"That's not what Sansa told me." 

Sandor turned and Arya skidded to a halt before him. He scanned the yard. All clear. 

He bent low and rasped, "What could the little bird have to say about me, eh?" 

An uncompromising, toothy grin shot across Arya's sallow face. 

“_Oooh I want Sandor to protect me,_” she crooned, tossing her head about as though she wore invisible plaits. “_I_ _should have let him take me from the Red Keep, he always looked after me._” She steadied herself and glared. “You must have done a pretty good job, out there in the riverlands. She’s _smitten_.”

“Fuck you.” 

Sandor slammed his sword into the hard earth with a frustrated grunt. Arya knew fuck all about their time in the riverlands, and even less about their time in the Keep. Nothing had even happened in the Keep. He had left empty-handed. 

But Arya's grin didn't disappear. She cocked a brow and said, "You wish I were lying. And guess what? I know about the kiss, too." 

"Kiss?" Sandor glanced over his shoulder, dropped closer. "There's no fucking kiss." 

“That’s not what I’ve heard.” 

“Well fuck you and whoever’s spouting this fucking horseshit.” He stuck his finger to her chest and pushed. “You’ll keep your mouth shut and your nose out of my cunting business, if you know what’s best for you. You can ruin a reputation with talk like that.”

Arya folded her arms, lifted her chin, and glowered from the side of her eye. “I don’t think that’s anyway to address a princess, Hound.” 

Sandor swallowed a frigid lungful of air and forced it out his nose. She had won.

He took up his sword and left. 

A kiss. A fucking kiss. 

Is that what they were calling it then? Had Sansa truly divulged the details of their every encounter? 

Fuck that.

That kind of talk could end him. A dog chasing a maiden. Never mind what people would say about Sansa, a virtuous fucking princess. 

Sandor barreled down a corridor, his breath a ragged mess and a salty tang on his scars. He would need new breeches, but first, he needed a bath. 

Harrenhal's bath house was renowned. It was massive, tubs and hot water abundant, all laid out in the style of the Free Cities, or so they said. A meager man like Sandor didn't get many opportunities to bask in such noble delights, so bask he did. 

Sandor shoved open the solid oak door to the bath house and warm air washed over him, thick with steam and the stink of herbs. He stripped in a wooden stall, dropping his sword belt, then casting aside his newly purloined clothing. The air felt good on his skin. 

A slug of crimson oozed from razor thin cut in his thigh—blood drawn by the damn princeling. Bugger her. 

Sandor smeared the wound with a rough palm, then exited stalls. Sunken tubs dotted the low-ceilinged room, hemmed in by long chains of ornate stone archways. As usual, Sandor made his way to the furthest corner and fell into the bath with a thundering splash. 

The saltwater seeped into his open cut and stung. Sandor grimaced, sunk deeper, and rested his head on the stone lip of the tub. 

How was a girl of thirteen years so skilled in poking him full of holes? 

She was just like her sister. 

Different blades, same effect. He would bleed dry by the end of this adventure, if it ever did end. Sandor would suffer Sansa's company for another quarter moon. More pearl-white smiles, more featherlight caresses, more sweetness in the air. 

Sandor's cock stirred. He let out a tangled breath, dropped his hand. His blood had run hot all morning. It was the bodice, low and tight. The perfectly placed braids. 

No. 

It was the red on her mouth. The gentle pucker as each morsel of fruit passed her lips, slowly, deliberately, her bright blue eyes fixed on him.

Fuck. 

Sandor tightened his grip and eased his hand up his length. He shouldn't. 

But he started, and managed only one more stroke before the sound of muffled snickering echoed across the room. Sandor straightened and squinted. He could have sworn he was alone, but no, two men bathed in a distant tub. There was a grey-haired man with a drooping beard and a younger man with strap of cotton over one eye. Sandor recognized Old Dennett, but he couldn't remember the other cunt's name. It didn't matter.

They threw sidelong glances at him, japed and cackled. Sandor glared as they emerged from their baths, fleshy skin dripping wet, asinine grins on their ugly faces. Dennett gripped the arm of his companion—Jack, that was his fucking name—and pantomimed stroking his shriveled old cock. They laughed. 

Sandor's blood travelled north and filled his face. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore them, but he caught the tail end of their words as they loped past. 

“—how 'bout that?”

More laughter. 

“If I was alone with the girl, I would have taken her every night.” 

“Tha’s a sweet cunt indeed, Seven be good.” 

Sandor’s barely relaxed muscles wound tight like a spool of thread—they spoke of his little bird. 

Their voices disappeared until one of them called out, "Oye, Hound! Tell us, how was it fucking the lost princess?” 

Sandor pried open a mean eye and growled through gritted teeth, “What the fuck did you cunts say?” 

The men exchanged a dubious look, and Dennett spoke up, "He says, how was it—"

But Sandor didn't let him finish. He bounded from the tub, trapped Jack's neck in a merciless grip, and pinned him against the wall. “What the fuck are you cunts on about, eh?” He jostled the man's throat, felt the air inside whistle and wither. “You think you fucking know something? Is that it?” 

“What’s the meaning of this?” A deep voice echoed from the entrance. Sandor turned. 

It was Harwin. Sandor hadn't seen the broad-shouldered Stark loyalist since his pitiful performance at the Hand's Tourney, when Trant had him unseated in the first tilt. But he had survived the war, apparently, and joined up with the brotherhood. 

He shared his opinions freely. Garnered sympathy readily. He had known Sansa her whole life. 

He was a real cunt. 

Sandor released Jack and took two broad strides to greet the northman. Harwin was a few inches shorter than Sandor, in more ways than one, though he was just as wide. He didn't recoil under Sandor's caustic stare. 

"Sandor Clegane. I wondered when I would have the pleasure seeing you." Harwin's eyes flickered down and came back up just as quick. "Or should I call you Hound? Word is your precious helmet has been returned to its master once more. A happy occasion indeed." 

Sandor grunted.

"Still have that charming temper, I see." Harwin tipped his head and called around Sandor's shoulder, "You alright then, Jack?" 

The two brothers shuffled forward. Jack rubbed the tender red imprint of Sandor's hand and nodded feebly. Old Dennett piped up, "We was only askin' after the sweet princess, you see. We didn't want no trouble." 

Harwin clicked his teeth. "Ah, yes. You're a lucky dog, aren't you, taking the princess all this way, earning a pardon. One can only hope you haven't stolen what can't be recovered." 

Invisible flame blanketed Sandor's burns. He imagined the sweet release of burying a fist in the man's chiseled gut. Better yet, he'd let his fist rest in Harwin's smug, hairless face. 

He resisted, for now. 

Harwin clapped a hand on Sandor's shoulder, and an insidious grin spread across his lips. "Be courteous to our brethren, if you will." 

_ Fuck you, _Sandor wanted to say, but it wasn't worth the effort. He peeled off Harwin's hand, collected his things, and stormed from the bath house in nothing but his tattered breeches.

Was that the tale, then? Did Sansa spread that one? Or perhaps it was Arya's handiwork. 

Oh, these stories fell well on foolish ears. The Lannister dog, the maid of Winterfell. A monster, a princess. He should have known. He should have known that conclusions would be drawn, half-baked notions parcelled out like tawny loaves. 

Fuck this. 

He didn't take the girl, and he wouldn't have even if he had wanted, which he hadn't. Not while they were on the road, hungry, cold, running from bloodthirsty dullards every hour of the day. He wouldn't take her now either, he lied to himself. No matter how keenly she whisked his guts, he would never know such splendor. 

Unless he was a very, very lucky dog. 

—

Sandor arrived to dinner early and sequestered himself in a stone-walled corner. He kept his head down and his hair slung well over his burns as a motley assortment of men joined the hall. There couldn't be more than two hundred of them total, Sandor had counted. They barely filled the cavernous chamber, built to entertain entire armies, but the stablemaster had told him more men surrendered to Stoneheart each week. 

Peasants, mercenaries, even lesser lords, sick of bearing colors. They bent the knee to acquit themselves of title. Smart men, even if some of them were insufferable. 

There weren't nearly enough women. 

Sandor started in on a bland haunch of pork and cup of brown ale. He had met the brewer, a portly man named Joss, earlier that day. The man lost his alehouse in the war and came to the castle for refuge, said that he had the finest ale south of the neck. He wasn't wrong. Sandor had poured his second helping when Arya settled at his side. 

"Sandor," she greeted. 

"Your grace," he replied. 

Arya tore a chunk of meat and dropped it onto her trencher, then lifted the platter to douse the whole affair in drippings. She forwent the use of a knife, and the two of them enjoyed dinner with nothing but the smack of open-mouthed chewing to furnish the air. 

After his third round of ale, Sandor grumbled, "There's talk of me and the girl." 

"You mean your _ little bird_?" Arya replied, her mouth locked on a grisly bone. When Sandor offered nothing but narrowed eyes, she queried, "What of it?" 

"It's not you, is it? Spinning these tales." 

"Hah, you wish." Arya released the bone and wiped her mouth with her sleeve. "I'm a pest, not a gossip. The brothers are inventing their own stories. Heard any good ones?" 

"No," Sandor answered, curt. "They're all shit."

He moped into his drink and considered absconding to his chamber, spending the rest of the night in pristine solitude, when Sansa entered. She strolled into the hall with a man on her arm. Sandor squinted to see, then suppressed vomit. 

Harwin. 

They were smiling at each other. Laughing. Swimming in each other's air. Sandor crushed the handle of his clay cup into a pile of shards and dust, and Arya snorted. She jumped onto the bench, waved to her sister, then jaunted back down with a wooden grin on her lips. 

"He's the worst," she whispered through tight teeth. Sandor swept his dusty mess to the floor just as the adoring pair adoring pair landed at the table. 

"Sandor. Arya." Sansa dispensed flawless curtsies to each of them. "May we join you?" 

"I don't mind," Arya shrugged. Sandor said nothing. 

The princess glowed. A pink blush painted her cheeks, and her breasts rose and fell just above her bodice, embroidered with swirling silver flowers. She had let her hair flow freely down to her hip, save for two slight braids pulled back from her temples.

She wore his cloak, too, the black one he’d had since they left the isle, fastened with pearl encrusted silver brooch. Her dagger rested just under her waist. It was a pretty picture.

Harwin's meaty arm flew over the table and he filched the pitcher of ale from Sandor. He bellowed, "I was just telling Sansa of how I came to join the brotherhood." He unloaded his loot in a fresh mug, but neglected to take a sip, instead offering everyone dogged eye contact. "Quite the tale, mind you. Gods it's been so many years now. Oddly enough, it all began with a fruitless hunt for the Mountain." 

Sandor's ears perked, but he busied himself with a sandy slab of liver loaf. Harwin didn't relent. 

"Well, we never caught the bastard, but I never went back to Winterfell, either. Of course, as I told you, your grace, my heart remains in the north." He rested a gloved hand on the spot where his heart no longer lay and delivered a humble look to Sansa. She returned a smile. 

The ale in Sandor's gut bubbled, a sour threat of breaching his windpipe. He stole back the pitcher and served himself some more. He drank. 

"Sandor," Harwin barked. "You may have heard your brother and his men once inhabited these halls. They raped their way across the whole Trident, I daresay." 

"Do we have to talk about the fucking Mountain?" Arya cut in, lazily stuffing a greasy cube of bread in her mouth. "He's dead. It's done." 

"Oh, dear girl, of course." Harwin drained his cup and snatched up the pitcher. "Now there was also talk of the Hound raping those poor girls at Saltpans, and I worried, oh did I worry, when I heard that our sweet Sansa had come to Harrenhal with the beast himself!" 

"Harwin!" Sansa scolded. She shone too bright for Sandor’s eyes to linger. 

“Forgive me, forgive me. The sweet princess has assured me that the dog has not mislaid his paws. Glad to hear you’re not a raper yet.” 

Sandor’s head cocked with compulsive rage.

_ Yet? _

His brow slanted over steel eyes. 

_ Not a raper, yet. _

White heat found the left side of his face. For pitiable assurance, Sandor looked to her, his little bird, but she avoided his eye.

“Fuck this.” Sandor stood and seized the pitcher of ale. “And fuck you.”

He raised the pitcher and met Harwin’s eye for an ornery toast, then dumped a crude quantity of booze down his throat. A few onlookers cast curious glances at Sandor as he slammed the vessel back down on the table, but he paid them no mind. He strode from the dining hall without another word. 

It took every ounce of strength to keep his fist at his side. His skin screamed and sizzled, fresh from the hearth, and he wanted to tear it away, acquit himself of aching flesh.

Instead, he fled. 

Sandor pounded through the aimless black corridors, begging invisible Gods for a shred of reprieve, though he knew only the Stranger would deliver it. He was a coward. He had never, ever worried for his reputation. Only now that his affairs were somehow tangled up with Sansa's did he fret over hearsay, because he would never forgive himself if his misdeeds reflected poorly on her. 

_ Not a raper. _

_ Yet. _

Fuck if Sandor would ever rape. Oh, he had done his fair share of killing. Killing was fine. But rape? Finding arousal in human suffering? He’d rather off himself. Sandor only took partners willingly, accepting their attraction to his beastly looks without judgement. 

But they were always willing.

Always. 

Sandor staggered out into the cloisters surrounding the godswood. The cold night welcomed him; the woods took him in. He wandered further from the imposing warmth and darkness of the castle and down a cobbled moonlit path. He wanted to hide. If he couldn’t escape his shit mind, he could at least escape people. 

Oh, Sandor hated people, but he hated himself more for forgetting why he’d abandoned society in the first place. He couldn’t get to his keep fast enough. He would raise dogs. Brew beer. Hells, he’d mine for ore if he had no other choice. 

He would hide for the rest of his life. Stowaway in the mountains. He would never inflict his appearance on unsuspecting or unsparing victims ever again. 

But he had so much to do before then. 

The path crumbled and faded at the edge of a grassy clearing, and Sandor stopped dead in his tracks. He had found the heart tree with its snow white skin and soot colored eyes. Crimson tearlings dripped from knobby irises and betrayed everlasting woe, something undying, beyond man. Its cruel stare pinned him in place, leaving Sandor nothing to do but listen to the clamor of his torn breath. 

Sandor spat at its gnarled network of roots. 

Fuck them. Fuck all the Gods, old, new, spirits and shadows alike. Always leering, never lending remedy when it's sought after. 

Fuck. 

Sandor stumbled to a wide oak and slid down its trunk. He rested his head on the craggy bark, shut his eyes, and let in the darkness. He craved oblivion. He regretted not bringing the pitcher with him. 

The patter of light footsteps sounded from a distance, then grew closer. Soft but harried exhalations accompanied them. 

“Sandor?”

His little bird. 

Sandor opened his eyes a crack but didn’t move. He willed her to disappear. 

“Sandor, are you out here?” She called again, a little louder, then surfaced from amongst the tangled shadows of trees. “Oh, Sandor.” Her face broke with relief, and she hastened over frosty swells of grass to stand before him. 

“What do you want?” He grumbled, low-lidded eyes on her gently heaving chest. “Where’s your precious northman?” 

“Sandor,” she admonished in a whisper. “I don’t—I’m sorry. He shouldn’t have spoken so boldly.” 

Sandor sighed, “It’s not your fault.”

“I know, but…” Sansa stole a glimpse of weirwood, shivered, then tugged her cloak, _ his cloak_, closer around herself. 

“But what?” Sandor rasped, hungry for her tender regard. 

Sansa turned back and fed him a shaky smile. It didn’t satisfy. 

“Sit,” he issued with a glance to his side. 

Sansa complied, folding onto her knees and stashing them just beneath the arch of his own. Her eyes glistened in the moonlight, but they held no fear. There was something else in her look that made his skin crawl and his fingers restless. The dark night air climbed inside him and stayed. 

“There’s talk, little bird.” He watched Sansa’s hands twist in her lap, though she treated her bandaged finger with delicacy. “You were right. They think me a raper.” 

“Sandor, no—” 

“Spare me, please.” 

“Listen,” she placed a hand on his knee. “I know you would never...never..._ hurt _someone like that. Arya knows. Stoneheart knows. You’re good at heart.” 

Sandor scoffed. She was in one of her moods again, keen to pick apart his character, lay her touch on him like an icy cutlass. He couldn't bring himself to care. There was no such thing as good, anyway. There was only bad and worse, and sometimes less bad. 

Sansa was less bad, especially tonight, in her silver and sapphire gown, her wild hair brimming over her shoulders and down her back. In the dark of the godswood she was starlight, and Sandor wanted to be blinded by it. 

"Sandor," she shook his knee. "What are you thinking of?" 

He exhaled, collected his scattered wits, then answered, "I don't think I'm a good man, little bird. I can only hope that I'm better than Gregor. Only truly foul men rape." 

"The worst of them," Sansa sighed. She looked down to her lap, where her other hand lay in a loose fist. She smoothed her thumb over her cotton-wrapped middle finger and released an infirm breath. 

"Sansa," Sandor probed, then waited for her eye. "Did Littlefinger ever—" 

"No!" She cried, jumping to her feet. She stumbled back a few steps with wide, wet eyes. 

"Wait." Sandor stood and stooped to catch her wrist. "Please, stay. I shouldn't have…it's none of my business." 

Sansa nodded her head but kept her lips tight. Sandor let her go. 

"Fuck, forgive me, little bird." 

She didn't answer. Her shoulders rocked forward as she fought against a sob and instead let out a pained whimper. She brushed away tears with a swipe of her sleeve. 

Watery blue eyes rested on Sandor, but it was all wrong. No one beheld him as she did. He had derided her fear all those years ago, but even then, that wasn't quite it. It was more than fear, worse than fear. She looked through him like the Gods Eye. Like the heart tree. Like the gaping holes in his hound's helm. 

He was nothing but burnt flesh and bone, but Sansa saw the bleak space in between. She pierced him with her wet stare, buried herself in the mire of his guts, and came back just as bright. _ Your company is no curse, _she had said, and he knew she sang true. 

She lowered her head, muttered to the ground. 

"What's that?" Sandor pressed. 

"Can you promise me," she sniffed. "Can you promise not to tell?" 

"Of course, little bird, you have my word." 

She picked up the edge Sandor's new black cloak just below his chest and held a handful of wool. "I can't remember," she whispered to nowhere in particular. "I can't remember what happened that night, not anymore. It's all dark. All shadows."

Sandor's heart clenched as though an invisible creature sunk in its talons and squeezed. He forced out, "What night?" 

"The last night in the Vale, when he said I would marry him. I remember he didn't yell, but his breath was close…" Sansa slid her fingertips down her cheek. "It was sweet, his breath, but it was black. And I remember, he took himself, he made me, here…" she traced her lower lip and rested quivering fingers on it. "But I can't see the rest...after the night...after I fell in the mountains. It's all gone." 

"Oh, little bird," Sandor soothed, his voice a soft rumble. He clenched his jaw so rigidly that it quaked, and his teeth ground into each other so forcefully they threatened to shatter. 

He would kill Littlefinger, he decided. Castrate him first. Let it fester. Then poke him full of holes, and watch each drop of blood empty itself from his veins. He'd feed the leftovers to carrion. It would be a pleasure. 

But that wouldn't dry Sansa's tears, or still her trembling lip. 

"I'm so ashamed," she whimpered. "I let it happen." 

"No, no," Sandor reproached. He pulled her chin up with one finger. "You did nothing wrong. Littlefinger had no right. He took advantage of you because he could. He thinks he won't suffer the consequences." 

Sansa blinked and gave a slight nod. 

"Does your sister know? Your mother?" 

She shook her head. "I'm afraid. Everyone's talking of me already, of my _ virtue_." She tipped the word with a barb. "I couldn't bear the hearsay. But I'll be safe in King's Landing. I'll have you." 

Sansa tugged her stolen share of Sandor's cloak. He tried to breathe, but cold suffocated his burns and the insipid bats in his gut thrashed their pointed wings._ I shouldn't know this, _he thought. The feeling was godsent torture, a black blessing. He shouldn't know the scent of flowers in her hair; he shouldn't count the dots on her nose. 

And he shouldn't, not with such obstinance, watch her eyes drift to his mouth, again. He shouldn't let his blood pool low. 

"Little bird," he breathed. "We shouldn't...It's probably for the best if we—" 

"Who's out there?" A shrill voice defiled the trees. Sandor fell back a step and searched for its source. It didn’t take long. 

"What's all this?" Brienne marched into the clearing, a clumsy scowl on her face, a mass of string bundled in her brutish grip. "What are you doing here, your grace? What is _ he _doing here?" 

She stopped and dangled her handful of colorful scrap in Sandor's face. "Is this your work, Hound?" 

"Brienne," Sansa chided. She held out an open palm. "Those are mine, if you please. I must have dropped them." 

The red-faced knight huffed, then surrendered the—what were they? 

Sandor realized, then. 

Ribbons.

Sansa had scattered her ribbons in the godswood. He met Sansa's eye as she stuffed the collection into a pouch at her belt, and an uncompromising blush filled her cheeks. It took all his willpower to force down a smile. Laughter like bile shot up his throat, but he swallowed it.

His sweet, lovely little bird wanted to fly but couldn't find her way, and Sandor's heart wanted to leave his chest. It slammed against his ribs and shouted in his ears. 

"What's your game, Hound?" Brienne spat, taking one step too close. Sandor's eyes narrowed. 

"His name is Sandor," Sansa chimed from his side. "The Hound is dead." 

Brienne sucked her crooked teeth. "Very well, _ Sandor_. I would like to have a word with you."

"Speak, then," he spat.

The woman knight cast a dubious glance at the princess, then fumbled for words. "You—you keep your distance. I know what they're saying, and I'll be damned if I let a Lannister dog like you sully the name of House Stark. I've suffered too much for too long to let the princess's reputation turn to ash. So mark my words, you best tread lightly. You're a dog amongst wolves." 

Sandor expelled a scathing breath on Brienne's broken face, stared down her oafish eyes. She didn't frighten him, but she did make his muscles tense, starved for steel, thirsty for bloodshed. He wouldn't, for the princess's sake, but nevertheless the images flashed in his mind. 

"Let's go," Brienne said to Sansa, taking up her shoulder. "You shouldn't be here." 

Sansa gave him a repentant frown as her keeper dragged her away like unruly livestock. Sandor offered, "You fly on, little bird. I'll be alright." 

He tried for a smile, but it might have been just a twitch of the lips. 

The two of them faded into the dense treeline. Sandor stood rooted in place, listening to the ever distant clatter of footsteps. Then he was alone, except for his breath and blood, the unsettling presence of the weirwood, and the babble of a nearby creek. The stars were bright and silent. 

He waited another few minutes. 

Then, slowly, breath unsteady, he brought a hand to the charred side of his face. He eased his fingertips along the red cracks, tugged, pulled, twisted as flakes of blackened skin protested and ripped. He winced, but he persevered. Crimson ire spilled from the wanton lesions, but there was no heat. 

There was not a single lick of flame. 

Cold starlight cupped his face, lingered. Sandor wanted to weep, or scream, or step into a bottomless lake, or slash the weirwood's white bark to unleash its violent, hallowed sap, because what he desperately wanted to deny was true. 

Sansa looked at him as though he were healed. 

No, worse. She saw his ruin, doused it in her blue-eyed affection, and made him whole. 

She banished the flame.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa passes the time at Harrenhal.
> 
> Chapter track: Black Sea Dahu - How You Swallowed your Anger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seven hells y'all, I've really been through A Time™️, so it has taken way longer than I would have liked to get out this next chapter. Ahhhh! If you're ever like 'where did she go?' I try to update on Twitter @_prettybadmagic to keep y'all in the loop. 
> 
> Enjoy!

### Sansa

After a bout of bickering and baseless chastisement, Brienne deposited Sansa at Arya's door. She had begged the knight to take her to her own temporary chambers, but Brienne rejected the plea, citing Sansa's safety as her utmost concern, and foisting the responsibility on her sister instead. 

The knight slammed her oversized fist on Arya's door. Sansa eyed a curious onyx figurine of the Stranger that kept watch of the threshold. It stood less than a foot tall, but its voided hood and sinister skull humbled Sansa all the same. 

The door flew open and Arya filled its frame. "What is it?" 

"Keep watch of the princess tonight," Brienne charged. "I don't want her to fall prey to impulsive appetites." 

Arya cast a dubious look at Brienne, then shrugged at Sansa and parted to let her pass. "Come on, then." 

Sansa shuffled inside, and her sister slammed the door shut without another word to the overbearing knight. The macabre room resembled Sansa's, with its bleak walnut furnishings and too-high ceiling. Black velvet drapery hung by the windows and from towering bedposts, painted in streaks of orange by the light of the hearth. 

Unlike Sansa's room, however, a smattering of boy's clothes and books covered the floors. There wasn't a ribbon or jewel in sight. Arya padded to her bed, pushed aside a few open books, and flopped onto the freshly cleared furs. She lazed on her stomach with her head propped in her hands. 

"Brienne's full of shit, isn't she?" Arya quipped. 

"She's the worst.” Sansa emptied her frustration in a throaty sigh, then tiptoed around an upended trunk and perched on the edge of Arya's silk upholstered mattress. "Why can't she leave me be?" 

"Oh, she's taken it upon herself to be the guardian of the House Stark. And you," Arya jabbed Sansa's thigh with a stub-nailed finger, "You're our crown jewel, a spotless diamond of unmatched clarity. She's not likely to let you out of her sight, not with any number of craven thieves afoot. Better to keep you in a vault." 

Sansa pouted and pressed the tip of her sore middle finger. "They're speaking ill of Sandor," she said to her lap. "It's like Harwin said. They think him a thief." 

“Harwin can be a little _boorish_, sadly," Arya replied. 

“I know. I remembered him fondly from Winterfell. Charming, almost. But he was so rude tonight, so—”

“Cunty?” 

Sansa huffed, and Arya issued a slight bounce of her shoulder as an apology. Though Sansa regretted her harsh words to her sister a day prior, the sentiment lingered. Arya acted like a boy, unbound by grace and docile manners. She let words spill freely from her lips and dodged the consequences. 

What were the consequences for such brazen speech? Who dealt the punishment? 

No one could stop Arya from brandishing a sharp tongue. No one could fault Sandor the same, and certainly no one could prevent the wayward men of Harrenhal from spreading their falsehoods. Sansa withheld herself. She hid her lurid truths behind a lacy veil of pleasantry. For her, the consequences were dire. An untamed princess was as good as dead. 

And yet, a tame princess idled like a diamond in a dismal vault. 

"He didn't take me," Sansa whispered. "Any number of men would have, but not him. Not Sandor." 

"I believe you, Sansa, I do." Arya pulled up onto her knees and moved to Sansa's side. "But he's got a miserable reputation, what with all the killing and scowling. And the scars, well they certainly don't do him any favors." 

Sansa sighed and dropped her head onto the bedpost. It burdened her tonight, though not nearly as much as her aching heart. 

"What is it?" Arya prodded. 

“You’re going to laugh, but you may as well know.” 

Her sister cocked a curious brow. 

"I don't mind the scars. I don't even mind his scowling. I find him quite handsome." 

Arya clapped her hand over her mouth to catch a reflexive guffaw. 

“I know, I know. Ridicule me all you want, I don't care. The men here are sure to outdo you, and it's just as well. Sandor will be gone in less than a moon, off to his keep where he can escape wicked tongues. And me, I'll be set into gold and trotted out across the kingdom, as some pretty, unfeeling bauble. The cruelest part is that I want the silks, the gems, the fine wines and frosted cakes, but it's all ash without kindred company."

Sansa's words landed in the air tinged with terminal longing. She closed her eyes to banish the feeling and its accompanying tears, but the darkness therein was no comfort. 

"So you do want him to stay," Arya intoned, her usual cheekiness reduced to something more merciful. 

"I do," Sansa answered. "More than anything. But it's no use. There's nothing I can do." 

"He could be your guard?" 

"I suppose, but he's not—I couldn't—" 

"He's not a dog." 

Sansa shook her head. Quietly, she said, "No, and he's taking back his keep besides." 

"Well if he's no hound, he must be some sort of varmint, nesting in your heart and whatnot." When Sansa found Arya's weary eye, the princeling cracked a fresh grin, wide enough to show a black gap where a molar used to sit. "What?" She teased. "You near said it yourself." 

"I just want him to be well." Sansa sighed. "He's suffered so much, and he hasn't any family." She incanted, "I just want him to be well. 

"Oh, Sansa," Arya consoled Sansa’s crumpled face. "He's sure as all Seven hells survived worse than getting called a raper at dinner. He'll be fine." 

"But what if I'm not?" Sansa whined. "I'm terrified of court, of those bloated lords and their pompous kin, and all of them after my hand. I'm sure to suffer." Sansa took up her sister's wrist and squeezed. "Oh, I wish you would come with us." 

"What, so I can suffer, too?" She rebuffed. "No thank you, _your grace_. You can enjoy your cream tarts and fruit jellies without me. Come visit when you grow tired of your lord husband." 

Sansa groaned, "It won't take long, I'm sure. They'll peddle me to some rich clod. Trystane, perhaps. He was promised to Myrcella, but I imagine that's long over. And Olena wanted to match me with Willas, but Cersei put an end to that. Still, a crippled lord would pair well with an imp's castoff." 

"Hells, Sansa," Arya yawned and stretched, raising her lanky arms up to the unreachable ceiling. "You'll put me to sleep with all this tittering." 

"Oh hush," Sansa chided, giving Arya’s shoulder a gentle shove as she rose from the bed. She looked around the room and frowned. “Do you have any nightgowns I can borrow?” 

Arya scoffed, "Seriously?"

"Well, what will you wear to sleep?" 

Arya gestured to her dingy brown tunic and matching breeches. Sansa moaned, "You're dreadful." 

"Ouch, that stings,” Arya answered, feigning a stab to the gut. “For a little bird you sure have nasty bite." 

Sansa took the bait and toppled her sister the mattress, pinching and pulling whatever she could get her hands on, but Arya was stronger and had Sansa disarmed within seconds. She yielded, and they fell back, rosy-cheeked and short of breath. 

“I’ll miss you,” Sansa sighed.

“I know,” was all her sister offered in reply. 

\--

Sansa never learned to navigate the castle. She spent scarcely a moment alone and latched on to whomever was available to guide her from one cavernous chamber to the next. Thankfully, most everyone was willing to help. Some men were too eager, but they never let their hands wander, even if their eyes did. 

The morning before the journey south, Sansa and Pia roamed the halls and scaled the towers, scavenging for ladylike treasure. Sansa collected a select few gowns and girdles, new hose, and a pair of golden slippers to be stowed away until she arrived at the Keep. 

She had only just emerged from a dusty bedchamber, her pouch laden with strands of white pearls, when Brienne intercepted her. The ugly knight let out a nasty grunt of relief and bellowed, "Your grace, your mother requests your immediate presence in the great hall. I'll take you now." 

Sansa opened her mouth to reject the request but settled for a callow pout instead. She had already grown tired of Brienne, but the maid of Tarth had volunteered to join the escort to King's Landing. She would suffer another quarter moon of stifling company. Harwin would come too. He had reminded her loudly and often at every mealtime. 

Sansa huffed as Brienne scooped up her by the arm and tugged her through winding corridors and down a bleak staircase. _Is that how to treat your precious diamond?_ Sansa wondered, but the question didn't find air. 

Instead, she let Brienne tow her through the Hall of a Hundred Hearths. Each voracious bed of flame glinted like a ruby in a crown of stone, resplendent enough to be blinding. Sansa kept her head low, feigning interest in the folds of her sage colored samite skirts. What good could possibly come of a meeting with Lady Stoneheart? Spite smoldered in Sansa's chest alongside the thought,_ I wish she had simply died._

After a brief eternity, they stopped at the throne. 

"The princess, my lady," Brienne announced. 

"Leave us," Stoneheart rasped. 

Brienne's firm grip slipped away. "Of course, my lady." 

Sansa waited for the last thundering footsteps to fade before lifting her gaze, and she regretted it immediately. Cold flame flickered in her mother's ice blue eyes, and black blood flowed in great dark webs just underneath her milk white skin. She was a frightening creature. Nothing tender or familiar rested in her face. 

Dread crept up Sansa's throat. She swallowed, but it roosted rigidly behind her tongue. 

"Tell me," Stoneheart hissed. "Is your virtue intact?"

Sansa's mouth fell open and formed ghosts of words, but she could only manage to answer, "My—my virtue?"

"You heard me, dear girl," Stoneheart said, loud and unfeeling. 

"No, of course—I never," Sansa whimpered. She should have known her mother would bring her to discuss her maidenhead, as anything mother would, though the notion of Sansa's virtue was as clear as smoke. Had it not been slowly purloined over the course of her young years? 

Scenes of unwanted contact played out before her mind like a macabre mummer's show: a graze across the chest, a hand slipped to her buttocks, a kiss that misses her cheek, a kiss that goes deeper than her lips. 

Then there was the night she should have been bedded by Tyrion, but he surrendered. Sansa hated the sight of his swollen purple manhood nestled in coarse yellow hair, but she hated the feeling it gave her more. She felt pity that Tyrion's body should betray his desire so flagrantly, that she should look on his hideous face and know his deepest shame. She wished she had never seen him naked, his deformed skin a thin sheath over an aching heart. 

Would her next husband make her feel the same? Would his unchecked lust stink of perverse sorrow? 

Littlefinger smelled the worst. He put on perfumes to mask the odor of putrid fruit that seeped vigorously from his pores. It was the promise of colorful harvest gone black, left to molder in a pile and collect shadowy life amidst maggots and gnats. He was sweet to dark things. 

_But he didn't take me_, Sansa assured herself. The stench of fetid plum filled her nose anyway, and wended down to her stomach. She whimpered and tried to cage the threat of sick with the back of her hand. 

"You're certain?" Stoneheart bade. 

"Yes," she lied, her eyes trained on the floor. Sansa guessed correctly that her mother's mean stare remained fixed on her, and she couldn't bear to meet it. 

"None of them had you—Cersei's bastard, her imp brother, her dog—none of them shared your spoils?" 

"No," Sansa answered through tight teeth. 

Stoneheart contemplated this for a moment, and Sansa watched the hearths flicker in the periphery of her vision. The endless pits of fire painted the surrounding stone with fearsome shadows that scaled the walls and writhed violently across the floor. Sansa drew her arms over her chest and pulled Sandor's cloak closer. _A bright shadow._

"I'll take your word, though the lords and ladies of Westeros may need more convincing yet. You'll be married as soon as a suitable match is found. We'll put any rumors to rest." 

"I don't want to wed," Sansa cried, but her mother only cackled her barren derision. 

"It's not your choice, Sansa." Stoneheart's eyes pierced her, and Sansa wondered if her mother could see the thorned rose of contempt that bloomed in her heart. She hoped so, but the undead queen only continued, "This is for our family. I will not live twice to see you feasted upon by lions and debased as an imp's whore. No, your brother and uncle shall pick your suitor and settle any questions of your reputation." 

Sansa opened her mouth to say something, anything, to defend herself but her mother lifted a skeletal hand to silence her. "My word is final. I have seen the stars. I have swam the depths of the Gods Eye. I have lived in the bloody heart of the greatest weirwood, and every God—New, Old, Many or One—they all whisper the same truth: wed the girl. She will know peace in the night." With no other bitter prophecies to relay, Stoneheart rasped, "You may go." 

Sansa didn't move. Her eyes skimmed across her mother's diminutive frame, her white snakes of hair, and the hollows of her cheeks, which once housed the softest smile. No longer, Sansa knew. This wasn't her mother. This wasn't someone kind who would hold her when she wept, teach her how to make moon tea, or tend to her grandchildren. This creature was content to treat Sansa the same as all the others. Like a sparkling, empty gemstone. 

Part of Sansa wanted to attempt one final embrace, but she held her hands in tight fists at her sides, so tight her sore fingertip ached. A hot tear fell down her face and dripped to the floor. _Goodbye_, she said in her head, because she couldn't care less about being courteous to a corpse. Lady Stoneheart nodded in response. 

Sansa sped from the hall as fast as she could without tripping over her skirts. She ignored all the gamboling shapes on the walls and tugged at the massive door with all her might until it parted enough to let her pass, then threw herself down the winding corridor. Her heart rang furiously in her ears, but anything was an improvement from the bone-chilling silence inside the hall, that dreadful void that put miles between Stoneheart and her, even when they stood not an arm's length apart. 

Sansa decided she would never see her mother again.

She ducked into the diffident shelter of an alcove at the bottom of a crumbling stairwell and rested against the wall. She closed her eyes to trap the water there. 

_You will know peace in the night._ The words echoed in her head, and what utter nonsense. What peace could she glean from being auctioned off to the highest bidder? 

Sansa longed to disappear. She wanted to fade like the sunset, a blaze of unbridled color, then darkness. The colors danced behind her eyelids and beckoned her, tempting her with the sweet release of eternal sleep. 

Yet at the bottom of Sansa's heart, she wished only for her maidenhead to disappear, as though it had never existed. She wanted no man, no well-to-do relative, no jeering lord, or cruel mother to ever speak of it again, to make concrete something that felt as distant as the moon. Sansa cursed the onerous value of her sacred flesh. 

It was a gross burden. She would never know peace while she carried it. 

"Little bird." 

Sandor. He bent his head below the slope of the stairwell and beheld her. Of course he would find her here, when what she wanted most was to never be seen again, especially by a man with such an inescapable air. He loomed over her, blocking the flicker of the torches with his broad shoulders. His contoured muscles pressed urgently against the sleeves of his tunic, and even the swell of his chest was visible beneath his dark jerkin. 

If Sansa laid her head there, she could listen to his heart. She would be warm. 

"Are you lost again?" His words were soft but paired with a discerning eye. 

Sansa shook her head. "No, it's...I've just said my farewell to Stoneheart." 

Sandor offered a grunt of acknowledgement and no more, but Sansa didn't mind. He took a step forward to share the minute space underneath the stairs, and his scent of pinesap and smoke followed. 

Sansa inhaled, then whispered, "She wanted to talk of marriage."

"Sounds dreadful," Sandor grumbled. His gaze darted across her features, from her unspooled hair, to her bodice, down to the toes of her boots, then back up to her face. Whatever he discovered in her he kept to himself, save for a slight gleam in his eye. 

Should she tell Sandor of such affairs? Probably not, and yet his warmth took the chill from her chest. 

"Oh, it's the worst," Sansa moaned. She reclined her head against the wall, shut her eyes, and suddenly words tumbled from her lips. "I don't want to be wed. I don't want to be bedded. I don't want to be touched, or looked at, or have my maidenhead measured by a court of strangers. I can't imagine anyone who would make me happy for the rest of my life, least of all a man. They're all so horrid." 

When she heard a crude laugh her eyes flew open. Heat rushed to her cheeks. What was she thinking, speaking so boldly? How was it that Sandor always affected these thoughts from her? 

"I didn't mean—" she stammered. 

"No, you're right, little bird." Sandor's lip twitched. He came closer, apparently disregarding Sansa's uncouth speech. "Men are insatiable creatures. We're all greedy for flesh and beauty, and aye, there's nothing finer than stealing a taste." 

Sansa pressed her body firmly against the stone wall to keep her knees from buckling and to prevent herself from dropping into Sandor's arms. Rugged earthiness billowed from his skin and clouded her senses. She wanted to float away in it. 

"How do you manage?" Sansa whispered, her voice tight. 

Sandor took up the end of her plait, twirled one lock around a sturdy finger, and through low-lidded eyes he answered simply, "I don't." 

Sansa made a noise of surprise, accompanied by a silent flutter of warmth in her belly—lower than her belly—though her blood remained hot on her face. She swallowed, and just as quick as he had descended upon her, Sandor straightened. He dropped his hand and threw a look over his shoulder. 

"I was headed to dinner," he said. Sansa only blinked. Without focusing anywhere in particular, he added, "I could accompany you, if you'd like." 

"Oh, of course," Sansa smiled. "It would be very kind of you." 

Sandor shrugged and turned, but before he could get too far, Sansa caught him. She gave a sly caress to his swollen bicep before intertwining their arms. She let herself settle close. 

They set out down the dark corridor in silence. Sandor's reserve often irked Sansa, but since that night on the ramparts, she understood. _I don't have pretty words_, he told her, and Sansa was like to agree. He was swordsman with a coarse tongue, not the feathery quip of a bard, and yet his stark honesty was more assuring than all the poems in the realm. Sandor always told her true, which made him unlike any other man Sansa had known. 

It made him better than any other man. 

Sansa's belly glowed, and she wondered how long she had felt so. Somewhere along their journey the cold had evaporated. A welcome heat filled its stead and made her heart light as air, with something akin to an agitated bliss. 

So Sansa found herself saying, "You look handsome tonight, Sandor."

She lifted her chin to catch a glimpse of his grey eyes, but he made no move to reply. Instead, they walked through the echoing corridors to nothing but the sound of their steps. Sansa knew only the satisfying pressure of Sandor's strong arm against her own. No harm would come to her in his embrace. 

After a while, Sandor cleared his throat. He stared pointedly down the hall and asked in a low rumble, "Who will they have you wed?" 

"Oh—" Sansa started. "I'm not certain. I can only guess. Truly, I don't like to think of it, though I've found myself thinking of little else." She sighed, then a new thought came to mind. "Who would you pick for me?"

She looked at Sandor, unblinking. The burnt corner of his jaw flexed before he finally relented. "I couldn't say, little bird. I'm not even certain who keeps your brother's court. Does he have the Martell boy?" 

"Trystane? Yes, he's at the Keep." 

"Well, what of him, then?" 

Sansa frowned. "He's much too young." 

"He's your age, I thought. Sixteen." 

"Oh." Sansa contemplated this for a moment. "Still, that's much too young."

Sandor released a curt laugh, shaking his head all the while. "You'll be impossible to please. Better young and naive than old and lecherous, I'll tell you that much." 

"Why so?" Sansa pressed. 

Sandor issued a dubious look. "You truly want to know?" Sansa nodded, so he continued, "Boys know little of the world and even less of women. Sure, a prince of his stature has likely chased and won over girls his whole life, but not so much to become bitter. The older the man, the crueler the appetite. It becomes less of a jovial game and more of a depraved quest." 

Sansa hemmed and weakly chewed on her lip. Sandor's words didn't seem quite right—Joffrey was young, but his appetite was undoubtedly cruel, more cruel than that of his uncle. To Sansa, boys were wild and unfettered. Men had restraint. She laid bare before Tyrion, and at her behest, he left her unspoiled. 

Sandor left her unspoiled, too. For all his years, all his strength, and all the opportunity Sansa had given, he hadn't plucked her flower. Perhaps he didn't want her. Perhaps she wasn't to his taste. But that didn't seem quite right, either. Sandor didn't take her because she wasn't his to take, and he knew that. He had restraint. 

Sansa swept her fingertips over the auburn ends of her hair, where Sandor's hand had been not ten minutes prior. She shuddered. 

"I don't believe it," Sansa said under her breath. 

"What's that?" Sandor lowered his head. 

"I think age makes men better, or at the very least more gallant. And I—I think you handle yourself very well." 

Sandor said nothing, but his bicep tensed. Sansa hoped that meant he accepted her compliment as truth. She wondered briefly about Sandor's appetite, his cravings for flesh. Surely he had had a woman, many women even, but would he ever take a wife himself? Or was he on a depraved quest of some sort? What was he hungry for? Sansa tried to read his expression, but only the left side of his face was visible, and his scars betrayed little emotion behind lengths of black hair. 

When they stopped at the entry to the dining hall, Sandor grasped the solid iron door handle, but made no move to open it. Instead, he turned to face her, and her heart stopped. Sandor dipped his head ever so slightly, close enough for Sansa to feel his breath at her temples. 

"I’m not a good man, little bird," he said in a cautious yet urgent whisper. “But I can hold back."

A full ruby blush decorated Sansa's skin and rendered her mute. Sandor saw. First his lip twitched, but then, slowly, his mouth eased from his baseline scowl into what could be considered a half-grin. But he didn't delay. Sandor thrust open the door, and the bright revelry beyond quickly subsumed them. 

Sansa’s pulse ached, everywhere. The feeling didn't feel dull during dinner, or back in her bedchamber, and certainly not under her furs. That wicked, vivid shadow trailed at the heels of her senses. It was like a boundless hearth—kindling, flame, ash, smoke, and all—that seeped through her pores and left but heat and solace. She slept well. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading as always! I intend to get back to my regular posting schedule. Drafting up some of my favorite chapters now 💖💖💖


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor suffers through the start of the journey south.
> 
> Chapter track: Father - Y U Make It Hurt Like This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy! This chapter is really long (whoops), but it has a lot of elements I wanted to include from Sandor's POV. 
> 
> Enjoy 😊

### Sandor

The ride south began as terribly as Sandor should have expected. He cursed the girl prince and the undead queen for assembling the most sorry escort imaginable. They were all cunts. Brienne was naturally more of a cunt than any of the others, then Harwin, for obvious reasons. But the worst of them were the lowborn volunteers—Luke, Notch, and Mudge—that joined the escort for no reason other than a prurient interest in the princess. 

Sandor rode at the front of the conspicuous group. There were four coursers among them, three rounseys, and Harwin rode his prized white destrier, Beron. Two of the coursers lugged the princess in her massive black wheelhouse, a ghastly thing slathered in black lacquer and detailed in gold filigree. They had succeeded in attracting the attention of every passerby, even startling a poor farmer into overturning a cart full of potatoes. 

Sansa ordered them to stop and help the farmer pick up his meager harvest. Everyone but Sandor pitched in. He waited some paces away, fighting back the craving for the drink that crawled beneath his skin, and ultimately failing. 

When they started back on the road, Notch and Mudge followed not too far behind Sandor, sharing the perch of the horse cart burdened with the escort's supplies. The two of them picked up a charming conversation about who would win the princess's heart, but more specifically, her maidenhead. 

"Is it red, do y'wager, her maidenhair?" Notch tittered. 

"Aye, or orange, and maybe yellow. Soft as silk too, I'll tell ye that. What a perfect pillow it would make." 

Their grating laughter drifted out into the surrounding fields and to Sandor's reluctant ear. They practiced wooing the princess and practiced bedding her, complete with moans and loud slobbering noises. Sandor pitied any whore who had the misfortune of laying with the damn fools and suffering their clumsy advances. He would make sure they kept their distance. 

Every so often Harwin rode to the front of the pack, silencing any bawdy talk and demonstrating his stallion's prowess. The destrier was strong and fast, even Sandor would admit, but it lacked elegance and facial beauty. Sandor would never have chosen such a simple-looking creature, and he certainly wouldn't have ridden it so proudly as Harwin did. 

The northman paced up and down the road. He called out obvious features of the surroundings, “Look, Duncan's Hill!” Or, “A fox and her kits, just beyond those grasses!”

Most annoyingly he shouted, “Ah, the King's Road!” when they joined perhaps the most well travelled and well known passage in all the Seven fucking Kingdoms. 

Sandor held his tongue, mostly, but Harwin tried him. He would start conversation on the subject of the North, usually some story of Sansa as a girl, or something heroic he achieved in service to the Stark family. Sandor couldn't care less. When Harwin dared to mention Gregor, Sandor drew steel and laid his blade in Harwin's lap. 

"One more word about Gregor and I'll take your little cock clean off, you understand?" 

Harwin scoffed and rode away, muttering something about the princess. Sandor pushed Stranger faster. Hours passed like entire moons, and Sandor had his share of such insufferable people for the rest of his life. 

He'd need to drink a lot more to tolerate their utter idiocy, and happily he'd packed more than a few wineskins. He had even filched a bottle of rye liquor, which now rested safely alongside his hound's helm in his saddlebag. 

Brienne called for them to stop past midday. Sandor steadied Stranger near a outcropping of shrubs. He didn't dismount, instead choosing to nurse his wine and stare off in the middle distance. If he had any amount of backbone, he'd be leading Stranger due west, without so much as a glance back. But here he sat, another king's pet. Lions, wolves, what did it matter? Sandor was bound to greater powers. Powers that would take his ugly head if he misbehaved, if he put one paw out of line. So he stayed, and he drank. 

Luke, Notch, and Mudge relieved themselves out in the open while Brienne and Sansa disappeared amongst the shrubs. Harwin circled the lot of them, mumbling to himself all the while. Eventually Sansa resurfaced, adjusting her wintergreen skirts with a slight frown. Her face lightened when she looked to Sandor, which made everything inside of him squirm with rot, but he induced stillness from himself as the princess stepped toward him.

Sansa offered her palm to Stranger, gave him a loving stroke on the muzzle, and managed no more than, "Should I fetch him some oats?" before Harwin leapt from his saddle and landed at her side. 

"Your grace," he fussed, pushing her hand away from Stranger, then taking her at the waist. "Be careful. That's a proper nasty beast. It could knock you down with one kick and break your delicate bones. Come, Beron is a much gentler creature." 

Harwin guided her to where the destrier idled, pushed some grain into her hand, and filled her ears with inaudible drivel. Sansa fed the northman's horse and smiled at his pathetic jokes. She spared Sandor a single guilty look before they started back on their journey. 

As usual, the wine made Sandor more sullen than numb. Bright flashes of fire raged at the corners of his vision, and for the life of him, Sandor couldn't discern whether they were the flames that rendered him a monster, or merely the ghostly blaze of Sansa's hair. Her scent clung to his nostrils. The silken feel of her braids tickled his fingertips. The sight of her white smile and crimson blush lingered in his mind's eye, a beautiful haunt. 

Oh, he was no better than any of the assembled lot. All of them were under Sansa's spell, and who wouldn't be? What man, what dogged knight, could dodge her charms? Her grace was effortless, her manners flawless. The Gods had distilled all the beauty in the world beneath her skin, and she was none the wiser. 

Seven fucking hells. 

It would be a long journey, but Sandor need only restrain himself for a quarter moon more. Then he'd be off. He repeated this to himself over and over to banish thoughts of the girl, but had limited success. The fire smoldered. 

After only a little while longer, Harwin yelled for everyone to stop. The wheelhouse jerked to a halt, and Brienne gathered the princess from inside it. The female knight said something to Harwin, then towed Sansa out to the nearby woods by her elbow. She was unsteady on her feet— travelsick, most likely. There was nothing worse for the stomach than jostling inside a wheelhouse. Not that Sandor ever had the privilege to ride inside one—he had simply witnessed his fair share of nobles spilling out the four-wheeled beasts and emptying their breakfast on the side of the road. He didn't envy them. 

Sure enough, Harwin disseminated the news that the princess didn't feel well and they would be resting for the remainder of the evening. All the men dismounted in a forested clearing and went to work on the drudgery of setting camp. They pitched tents, unloaded foodstuff, and started fire.

Sandor ambled deeper amongst the trees to collect viable firewood and compulsively listened for any stirring that Sansa might make. It was a habit he formed after that first night on the road with her; a habit he hadn't cared to shed. 

Sandor didn't hear the sound of retching or water, only distant harried whispers. He had gathered a full armful of frosty tinder just before he heard a sudden rustling of leaves, a delicate gasp, and light footsteps. Sansa burst from a thicket of trees with Brienne close at her heels, and she hastened to the fire amidst a swirling cloud of her breath. 

Sandor saw what had startled her. Deeper in the woods, almost imperceptible, a small boar sniffed and clawed at the roots of a mighty oak. It was a tiny thing, more piglet than full grown. Nothing to fear. 

Sandor followed after the princess and dropped his findings by the fire. Harwin had already come rushing over to assess the commotion. He gripped Sansa's hand and demanded, "What is it, your grace? Have you seen something?" 

Sansa pulled away and drew her cloak closer around her shoulders. She still wore Sandor's cloak, an ill-fitting jumble of thick black wool that swallowed her diminutive frame and dragged on the muddy ground. She looked lovely in it. 

"A boar," Brienne answered when Sansa only pouted. Harwin's face exploded with unbridled glee. 

"A boar!" He exclaimed. To the other men he declared, "Sounds like dinner to me! Quick, get your blades. I'll fetch my bow." 

Harwin and his cronies frantically searched for anything that might serve an impromptu hunt. Sansa squeaked in protest, but only Sandor and Brienne noticed. 

"Is that entirely necessary?" Brienne called. "We have plenty of food here. Let us cook what Lady Stoneheart graciously provided." 

"Necessary? Certainly not," Harwin replied. "It is a luxury. To have fresh roasted boar while sleeping beneath the stars—there is no greater pleasure. We will dine like kings!" Harwin raised his bow to rally his bumbling troops, and they descended upon the woods.

Soon, all was quiet except the crackle of flame and a swift eastern breeze. Sandor went to the cart and pulled out two rickety pine chairs, which he delivered to Sansa and her keeper. They offered tepid thanks, and Sandor went opposite the fire to perch of a fallen log. He took a greedy swig that sent a trickle of wine through his scruff and down his chin. He swiped at it with a coarse palm, then drank some more.

Sansa looked green. She kept her mouth in a flat line and stared into the fire, folded over herself like a wilted flower. The sight made Sandor's guts unsteady, and he had a brief vision of kneeling at her side, letting her droop into his arms instead of the unforgiving ground. But the vision faded as soon as it had come—Sandor had the misfortune of meeting Brienne's callous stare.

No one spoke. 

A hazy dusk had begun to fall when the sound of shouting and the thunk of arrows drawn and released broke out. Sansa straightened, and Sandor narrowed his eyes at the treeline behind her. There were some more scattered shouts, a handful of squeals, and then unabashed, victorious hollering. 

Sandor had hoped they would fail, but why would the Gods grant him such a wish? 

Harwin and his men emerged between the tangle of winter branches and grasses, and Sandor shot up to standing. He took one defensive step around the fire, but it was too late. Sansa's slight jaw dropped, and she clasped a pale hand over her mouth. 

They had more than a mere piglet. They had slain three piglets and a sow—their mother. Harwin carried her great bloodied corpse over his shoulders and cried, "We've done it your grace! You're in for a splendid treat." 

Sansa rose on shaky knees and backed into Brienne as the men dumped their spoils by the fire. Each boar landed with a wet crunch. A sheen of blood slicked their bristled coats. Messy kills, the lot of them, with too many puncture wounds to count. It didn't take so much effort to pacify a piglet—these men had savored the violence. 

Harwin dropped the sow and bade, "Start butchering the beasts. I want to eat before moonrise." Then, noticing Sansa's reticence, he queried, "Your grace, what's the matter? Are you not pleased by my success?" Harwin crouched to pat the dead sow's head. Her pink tongue lolled from her mouth, and an arrow had clearly taken her eye out, leaving a dark, wet hole in its place. Sansa whimpered. 

"She doesn't eat meat," Sandor growled, putting his body between the pile of pork and the quivering maiden. He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword. 

"Doesn't eat—I've never heard of such a thing. Your grace—" Harwin attempted to move past Sandor's broad frame to no avail. "Clegane, stand down. The princess can speak for herself." 

"Hound," Brienne warned, but Sandor didn't budge. His jaw clenched its fury. He glared down at Harwin's jolly face, striped with boar's blood and sweat. This man knew fuck all about Sansa, despite all his charming little anecdotes about tending to her girlhood scrapes and bruises. Fuck him. 

Then Sansa called in a whisper, "Sandor, please." 

His teeth tightened almost to the point of shattering, his brow stayed close and mean, but he yielded, dropping into the closest chair with a concerted grunt. 

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" Harwin jeered. Approaching the princess he said, "I know ladies dislike bloodshed, but there's nothing to fear about meat, your grace. It makes men strong. I'll roast it for you, and it will be the sweetest thing you ever did taste. How does that sound?"

Sansa's eyes were wet and vacant, but she managed a weak, "It would be very good of you." 

"Splendid," Harwin chimed. "We'll have them cooked in no time." He reached out to Sansa, but she withdrew toward Brienne. Harwin replaced his dirty, rejected hand with a sigh, then said, "Come on men, let's get started." 

Luke, Notch, and Mudge, who had all delayed the work of butchery to watch the scene unfold, now took up their knives and moved back towards their bounty. Brienne ushered Sansa to the chair next to Sandor, and she sat doe-eyed and shivering, fully buried in her cloak. Two streams of tears shone at the corner of her eyes, and no color filled her face.

Sandor drank his wine to take the edge off his anger and dull the sorrowful glow of the maiden at his side. She deserved the finest fruits and the sweetest honey, not a sloppily slaughtered wild boar—piglets, no less. 

What a fucking mess. 

Harwin buried a dagger in the sow's belly, and Sansa let out a near silent, "Oh." 

As he dragged the blade across the thick flesh, Sansa wobbled in her seat. Her head circled round her neck, and her eyes lost focus. When Harwin peeled back the folds of skin and a tide of reddish-purple innards sloshed out, Sansa's eyes rolled back into her skull. She landed in Sandor's arms. 

"Little bird," he breathed, because the wine got the better of him. 

"I'll take her to the wheelhouse," Brienne cut in, prying away Sansa's gentle weight. "I knew she was ill." 

"What's happened?" Harwin demanded. "Is she alright?" He removed his clumsy hands from inside the sow and wiped his brow with his sleeve. 

"She's fainted," Brienne repeated. "Travelsick. She simply needs rest." 

"Of course, of course. She's had a long day. Well, we'll wake her when dinner's ready." Harwin pinned a grin on his face. It didn't fool anyone. 

Brienne trudged off to the wheelhouse. After sealing Sansa inside, she went to work setting her own tent just beyond the entry to the carriage. She didn't rejoin them. 

Sandor downed more wine as night fell. The men crudely butchered each boar, tied them up, and set them above the fire. Satisfied with their shoddy work, they all fetched their own seats and huddled around the roasting beasts. Luke distributed goblets to everyone but Sandor—he gave the cunt a nasty stare to keep him away—then poured messy cupfuls straight from a quarter cask. 

Sandor wasn't lucky enough to enjoy any quietude. 

"Doesn't eat meat…" Harwin began, pensively sipping his beer. "Don't know where you got such a notion, my good man. You see, since her youth, I've known the princess to enjoy all types of flesh. Mutton, beef, suckling pig, goat, quail, and venison. All types, I say. She has a polite appetite and discriminating taste, of course, but she has always had a broad palate. A princess must. It's only proper." When Sandor didn't respond, Harwin pressed, "What say you to that?" 

Sandor let out his annoyance in a low grumble, then said bitterly, "You must know her well." 

"I do indeed. I remember the very day she was born, in fact. I was seventeen, freshly inducted into the house guard. Lady Catlyn was overjoyed to have a daughter, having already fulfilled her duty in bearing a son—a shame about Robb, I might add—and she and Ned took to their balcony to show their newborn babe to all the castlefolk. Even then, she was the prettiest thing you ever did see. Her hair—oh, it's always been that bright, beautiful red."

Notch and Mudge broke into a fit of giggles and whispers, but Harwin ignored them. "And so I watched her blossom into the loveliest flower with each passing year. So well-tempered. So kind to all she meets. Not all ladies of noble blood carry themselves so graciously—Arya for one—but Sansa was born to be a princess. It's her rightful place in the kingdom. Though I daresay she deserves to return north to be amongst her people. If her brother has any sense, he'll send her back to Winterfell to solidify his claim. She needs to be wed to northman, and I intend to advise him on this very issue." 

This time, it was Sandor who laughed. He issued one cruel bark then drank vigorously from his wineskin. How could the princess tolerate the bastard? She was a smart girl. She had assumed correctly that when it came to maidens, men thought of little else but wedding and bedding them. Harwin was no exception, apparently. Pathetic. 

"Have I said something funny, then, Hound?" 

Sandor's malicious grin disappeared. "Aye, you'd make for a great fool. The princess doesn't want your fucking hand, she doesn't want any man's hand, not the way you cunts talk of her as if she were bloody chattel. She's not a lick as clueless as you lot think her to be." 

"Well, I never—I would certainly never foist myself upon the girl." Harwin set an earnest hand on his breastplate. "I am a humble servant to House Stark, and I wish to see her safely home in the North. It's what's right. And if the princess happens to form a bond with me along the way, who am I to hold back? She's shared with me on more than one occasion her fondness for my company and her interest in my ongoing...protection. I intend to relate to her as I see fit " 

"Lucky bastard," Mudge rasped. The skinny man bobbed his head and ran a hand through his greasy lengths of hair. He was clearly not keen on bathing. 

Harwin agreed, "I am indeed quite lucky. To be reunited with the girl after so much time apart—I can only credit the Gods. I do believe fate has something remarkable in store for us, I'll tell you that." The northman looked to Sandor and took a smug sip of ale, but he didn't earn a reaction. 

The other men went off on some other topic of fates and fairies, nothing Sandor cared to give a listen. His long hours of drinking had caught up to him, so he stumbled out into the trees and relieved himself against an ironwood.

In the midst of it, the dark gall of wine writhed in his gut and up the back of his throat. He hadn't had enough wine to be sick, he was certain, but acid prickled his innards all the same. He rested his forehead on the sturdy trunk before him and tried to breathe.

He was fucking pathetic—no better than Harwin. Sandor blamed his reunion with the little bird on the Gods too, but not the Old Gods, it was the Stranger. It wasn't a remarkable fate, either. It was a merciless punishment for all his wrongdoing. For every impure thought and deed, the Stranger had returned her, so that Sandor may suffer a hapless attraction. A depraved lust. 

He wanted to devour her, the Gods knew. It took all his willpower to deny himself her spoils. He refused to hunt her. For the girl's sake. For all her woe, for all the wolves in the night that sought her flesh, he wouldn't. Instead, he would pine after her like goddamn gelding. 

Seven hells, he was pathetic. She stole all his strength, and all he wanted was her song. 

_ It'll be over soon_, Sandor reminded himself, but the thought was ash in his skull. 

Sandor didn't return straightaway to the fire. By its light, he searched the cart and retrieved a bundle of beets. Making quick work with his knife, he carved each root into rounds and stuck them on a sharpened stick. He placed it over the white hot bed of embers with a satisfied grunt. 

"Quite the cook, are you?" Harwin japed. 

_ Fuck you _was Sandor's first thought, but he withheld himself and opted for a simple, "Bugger off." 

As the moon travelled further into the night sky, the men scrambled to set a serviceable dining area. Stoneheart had sent them with a large tent, a surplus of chairs, a long pine table, and far too many table settings, candelabras included. All the trappings of royalty. Harwin barked orders to Luke, Notch, and Mudge about where to put this or that, and Sandor loitered contentedly by the fire. 

When dinner was ready, Sandor dumped his now blackened beets on a small dish and carried them to the tent. He fell into a chair at the end of the table, as far from Harwin, Luke, Notch, and Mudge as possible, and he did well to ignore them. A massive stack of meat commanded the setting. Too big for its dish, bright red juices spilled out and streamed through crevices in the wood, then dripped just to the right of Sandor's boot. The air was thick with death. 

All went quiet when Sansa and Brienne entered. The princess slid into the seat in between Sandor and Harwin. 

She put a shaky smile on her frightfully pale cheeks and cooed, "Thank you for dinner, Harwin," The insincerity of it made Sandor's burns ache. 

"Please eat, your grace." Harwin cut a tactful slice of boar and set it on the slab of dark bread before Sansa. 

She expressed more gratitude, but observed her meal with a blank look. Everyone else served themselves food and drink and spoke of more trivial things. Travel, winter, the state of various townships and villages on the road. Regrettably, the piglets tasted more than decent, and Joss's amber ale washed it down well. 

Sandor didn't take his eye from his little bird. She poked meekly at the meat and frowned. 

"What's the matter, your grace?" Harwin asked, betraying a kindred interest in the girl. "Is your stomach bothering you?"

Sansa nodded. Nothing depleted her appetite faster than the abundant stink of meat, and her lips were near white from how tightly she bound them together. Sandor's skin crawled even hotter. 

She cleared her throat and gestured with a slight tilt of her head across the table. "I would like some roast beets, if you would be so kind, Brienne." 

Harwin turned the same shade of red as the vegetables in question. "Beets?" He scoffed. "I wouldn't call them beets in that state. They're halfway to ash." He chuckled, and the rest of the men joined him amidst their sloppy chewing. 

Nevertheless, Brienne slid some atop Sansa's trencher, and she gave meek thanks, but Harwin wasn't through. Just as Sansa brought a sliver of beet to her lips, he barked, "Try the boar first, your grace. You'll love it." 

"Oh—" she started. Her bite slid from the end of her knife. "I don't think it would— " 

"She doesn't want your fucking boar," Sandor grumbled with his lips planted on his goblet of ale. "Leave her be." 

"I don't think I asked your opinion, Hound. I'll speak to the princess as I wish." Harwin lowered his head closer to Sansa's ear and said, loud enough for everyone to hear, "Now I've seen you sup on many a boar I've had my hand in hunting, and this is no different. Here," Harwin began slicing Sansa's meager piece of meat into even smaller bites. He stuck a morsel onto the tip of his knife and held it out to Sansa. "Try it." 

Sansa turned as white as snow. She tenderly stifled a gag. 

"Harwin," Brienne admonished. 

"What?" Harwin rebuffed. "Just one bite." He raised the meat level with Sansa's lips, which trembled ferociously but didn't quite part.

"That's enough," Sandor spat. His fist rested like lead on the table. Hot blood seeped through his cracked flesh, flame plagued the murk of his mind, and the world went blurry at the edges. Yet Harwin’s knife continued to dance at the little bird’s lips, an offering of death, provoking naught but tears in her eyes. 

Sandor slammed his first down. He roared, "I won't fucking repeat myself, cunt,” then launched himself the table. He cast Harwin's knife aside, and it flew like a discarded bone between Luke and Mudge's heads, then landed in the dirt with a thud. 

Everyone turned their attention to Sandor, and the heat of it contorted his face like molten earth. His breath was wild. Sansa was the first to speak. 

"Sandor, please. Sit down," she entreated in a wet voice. He couldn’t find her face, but he did as he was told, falling back into the chair with a loud clatter of steel-plated armor on brittle pine. 

"That's no way to behave in front of a princess, I daresay," Harwin butted in. "You've made the poor thing cry!" He stuck out his lower lip like a full-grown child and patted Sansa's lap. Sandor entertained the thought of slicing his malignant paw off at the wrist, letting his blood empty like a sow. The time would come. 

"I'm quite alright," Sansa sniffed. She pinched a piece of boar no bigger than her fingernail, squeezed her eyes shut, and pushed the meat inside her mouth. She coughed, swallowed, and smiled, despite the sparkle of tears in her eyes. "It's quite wonderful, Harwin. I so wish I had more of an appetite." 

She made the mistake of meeting Sandor's acrimonious stare. He shook his head. "Fuck this." He pushed up from the table. He kept hold of his goblet and snatched up the plate of beets. "Fuck the lot of you." 

The lumpy earth under his feet threatened his balance as he exited the tent. He made it safely out to the dark night, but not before hearing Harwin bellow, "Has he had enough ale, do you think?"

Sandor stalked to the fire to the tune of their raucous laughter. _ It's wine, you cunt, _he corrected, squeezing the last drops of drink from his pouch and dropping onto a fallen log. He made quick work of the beets, too. 

Eventually, the others finished their dinner and spilled from the tent. Brienne guided the princess back to her wheelhouse, expressly avoiding Sandor, not that the little bird spared him so much as glance. Harwin and his band of idiots tidied dinner and took to their tents. Sandor had set his own earlier and thought of retiring, but he knew he wouldn't be able to enjoy sleep. 

The sound of rhythmic shuffling, slightly muted under layers of cloth and canvas, echoed out into the cold air. First from Notch's tent, then Mudge's, and finally Harwin's. The showy bastard even tossed in a few hushed moans. The half digested beets in Sandor's stomach found their way back up and onto the forest floor, and he washed the taste from his mouth with a sour load of spit. 

Why the fuck was he here? 

He was a free man. He was as strong as he’d ever been, and nothing stood in the way of his keep. To hell with the girl. She had plenty of men to track her pulse and count her every breath. Those men had nothing better to do than swarm, to guard her cache of honey on the off chance that she’d share a taste. 

Sandor wasn’t a smart man, but he knew hovering over the princess’s sweetness was a fool’s errand. He had nothing for her, and she had nothing for him but her tears and terror. 

He was nothing, and she was a princess. 

He wasn't fucking needed here.

But Sandor didn't move. He looked to the sky. The stars stared back, and despite the haze of drunkenness, he counted them—the Smith, the Crone, the Warrior. They were familiar, unchanging, ancient. Sandor had lived through death and rebirth countless times, and the stars only watched. 

They offered pitiable guidance. They told ships where to sail and armies where they should march. Entire kingdoms fell because the stars aligned, and yet Sandor received nothing. 

Their shine was familiar and barren. 

Sandor let his eyes fall, and he was back at his keep. He was ten years old, and his mother was at his side, teaching him the constellations. They would lay out in the grass on late summer nights, long after everyone else had gone to sleep, to revere the Gods in the sky. 

_ Each of the Seven has their own stars_, she had explained, _ and their companions. The Warrior has his sword and shield, the Stranger a skull, the Mother her child, and the Maiden has her flock of birds. _

Sandor asked, _ why does she have birds? _ Mostly because he had started to notice girls, they mystified him, and he wanted to know their secrets. His mother answered, _ she knows how to sing their song, sweetling. The Maiden calls them home. _His mother sang to him then, any number of songs, until he fell fast asleep. He always woke up warm in his bed. 

_ Home. _ Sandor had a home, but he lost it one family member at a time. The keep was no home when it was silent. Not even the hymn of the wind and rushing river filled the great hollow Gregor left behind. There was only emptiness, the dark space between the stars. 

Sandor didn't see the maiden or her little birds in the sky that night. He would kill to hear her sing, to see her mild flock gather at her feet, but no amount of wasted life would compel such music. After all these years, Sandor didn’t know the maiden’s song. He didn’t know how to lure in the softest and sweetest things. 

Perhaps if his mother had lived, if Margaery had lived. 

Sandor spun in and out of slumber, cradled between the heavens and the earth, comforted by the glow of embers at his feet. There were maidens in his dreams, mothers, and crones. They whispered ancient secrets and hummed ancient hymns, but their words fell onto to deaf ears. The Stranger and its inexorable murk were much too loud. 

At the first inkling of dawn Sandor roused. Pale blue light cut across the tumbling hills and skirted the trees. Sandor used the edge of his cloak to absorb a spot of wine-soaked drool at the corner of his lips and ran his tongue, dry, across his teeth. His mouth tasted like shit, so he found and the cask of ale and drank straight from the spout. 

If he wanted to flee, this was his opportunity. 

Sandor went to Stranger and ran a hand through his silken black mane. Harwin was right, Stranger could be a nasty beast, but he was a damn loyal beast. He cared only for his master. 

He cared only for his master, and the little bird. 

Sandor rested his face on Stranger’s shoulder. How was it that the girl had won his stallion’s favor? Sandor could only think to blame the Gods, the bounteous gift of the Maiden. He pictured all the times Sansa had tended to the horse, whispering sweet words and giving him oats by hand, always with a smile on her pretty face. 

She hadn't smiled all last night, not a true smile. The thought of her malaise caused the pool of ale in Sandor's stomach to turn over. 

He needed to make things right. 

Just as Sandor had done on the first leg of their journey when he couldn't sleep, he took to the woods. 

Sandor had spent a great many nights in the wild, even before his wartime camping under Lannister banners of red and gold. Growing up out west, he slept outdoors often, much preferring the company of the stars to that of people. He knew every tree on his father's land, every hilltop, every crag, and every bend in the river. He knew the grasses, the herbs, the vines, and the ferns. Most importantly, he knew what he could eat, and what was poison. 

So by the dim light, Sandor searched for something for Sansa to eat. He found a cluster of yellow butter mushrooms pushing up from a pile of dead leaves, so he plucked them in one fistful and tucked them in his arm. Deeper in the woods he kicked away more decaying foliage and uncovered dark green wild cabbage, one of her favorites. Lastly, he picked a smattering of dried winterberries from a scraggly bush. They'd work well in porridge. 

Satisfied with his armful of foraged goods, Sandor retraced his steps back toward camp. The tawny outlines of the tents had just come into view when suddenly, in a bright flash of red, Sansa emerged from between a thicket of trees and came to a hasty stop. 

"Oh," she breathed, lifting her eyes from her boots to find Sandor's fatigued face. He reflexively tightened hold of his loot. Any proper greeting languished on his tongue—tears stained the girl's reddened face. She pressed her palm to her cheek but she couldn't wipe the despair from her features. 

"Little bird," Sandor tried out his voice. "What's the matter?" 

She didn't get an opportunity to reply. Brienne barreled towards them, one lumbering step at a time. 

"Your grace," she called out, winded. "Your grace, you can't run away like that. I can't let you out of my sight." When Brienne recognized Sandor her brow immediately furrowed. She eyed the vegetables, then looked from Sandor to Sansa. "What in all Seven kingdoms is this?" 

Sansa didn't answer, save for a quiver of her lips. They were as red as the tip of her nose. 

"Well?" Brienne demanded, but Sandor didn't reply. He pushed past the female knight and strode through the tangle of trees, until exasperated whispers between the women melded into the breeze. He didn't have a scrap of energy to devote to her fretting. 

Sandor had reached the outskirts of their camp when another flash of movement caught his eye. One of the roustabouts—Mudge, he guessed—ran swiftly towards the wheelhouse, throwing cautious glances over his shoulder as he went. Sandor stopped dead in his tracks and listened. The door of the wheelhouse creaked open, a few moments passed, then it shut again. 

Mudge crept back out, a pristine white bundle of fabric clutched in his dirty fingers. He scanned the area around the fire, then disappeared into Notch's tent. 

A familiar rage seized Sandor's being—the same rage he experienced the day of the riot, when rotten-toothed, shit-encrusted peasants tore at Sansa's skirts, or the day that Joffrey bade Meryn to slice her bodice open before half of court. The rage was white hot; it flared in his every muscle and commanded him forward. 

He pushed a massive, ragged breath through his nostrils. Whatever that cunt had stolen, he would pay. 

The mushrooms, cabbage, and berries scattered onto the ground as Sandor drew steel. He pounced on the tent, dipping his blade between the opening folds and slicing it up through the middle. He flung aside the withering canvas. Mudge and Notch squirmed inside, shuffling about their blankets and yowling like threatened cats. 

"Not so fast," Sandor rasped when Mudge attempted to flee. He stuck his sword to the man's ribs. "What did you take from the wheelhouse?" 

"N-nothing," he stuttered. 

The man was a poor liar. A bit of white poked out from the waistline of his dingy woolen breeches. Sandor retrieved the silken mass by the tip of his sword, then held it out at a distance. The garment dangled pitifully in the breeze, carrying a draft of Mudge's sour scent. Everyone went silent. 

It was certainly one of Sansa's nightgowns, the finest silk with careful floral embroidery at the neck and sleeves, but it wasn't as unsullied as Sandor thought. A dark circle of blood stained the gown's center. 

It couldn't be. 

They had taken her in the middle of the night, torn her maiden's veil, and Sandor had been too drunk to fucking notice. His heart turned into an untamed creature in his chest, wild enough to break from his ribs. He snatched up the dress and hissed, "Which one of you took her?" 

Sandor clamped Mudge's neck and slid his blade between the man's wiry legs, stopping only he felt the worn woolen threads below his bollocks began to snap. "I'll geld you and your friend, and I'll think nothing of it. So tell me, what have you done to the girl?" 

"Let him go, Hound," Harwin boomed from behind.

A sharp point rested between Sandor's shoulder blades, and he whipped around to face the doltish northman. Despite the chill in the air, he stood in nothing but his breeches and boots, leaving his thickened torso exposed to the frost. Sandor growled. He regretted his choice to let Harwin live through the night. He should have butchered him like an autumn ham the moment he forced his knife to Sansa's lips. 

"Look what he's done!" Mudge moaned. "Look what he's done to the princess's gown! He took her in the night, he did." 

Notch leapt to his feet and chimed in, "Mudge tells it true. He found the dress in the dog's tent. Trying to hide it he was, then came after us when we caught him." 

Harwin's jaw went slack. "The audacity…." He reached for the gown, but Sandor pulled it away. 

"Don't you dare," he warned. He raised his sword and backed up, keeping the weapon trained on whoever was stupid enough to advance. "I wouldn't lay a finger on the girl, meanwhile you cunts are up all hours fondling yourselves and calling out her bloody name. You make for piss poor liars, I'll tell you that." 

Before anyone could get in another word, Sansa and Brienne surfaced from their outing in the forest. Brienne assessed the situation—a crudely dismantled tent, four scowling men, and two swords gleaming in the sunlight—and her face turned cold. She drew her own weapon. 

"What's happened now?" She charged. She tipped her blade towards the discarded plants that peppered the ground. "Fighting over vegetables again?"

Sansa peered out from behind Brienne's elbow. Her eyes landed on the gown, then moved to Sandor's twisted face. A blush the color of the reddest summer rose saturated her skin. She shook her head and quietly mouthed, "Oh no, no, no, no."

"It's the Hound," Harwin declared. "He's stolen the princess's virtue while we all slumbered. Why he's clutching the evidence in his meaty paw right now!" 

Brienne came forward slowly with narrowed eyes locked on the nightgown. Sandor threw it at her feet. "He's full of shit. Mudge took the damn thing from the wheelhouse as soon as you were gone. Give it a good whiff. If anyone took the girl, it's him." 

The knight scooped up the gown and frowned. She cast a glance at the princess, and they reached an unspoken understanding. "Men are such imbeciles," she groused. "No one had the princess. I would have woken at the first sign of trouble." 

All the men exchanged looks of unresolved fervor. When neither Harwin nor Sandor dropped their swords, Brienne tersely added, "It's moonblood." 

Sansa brought her hands to her face and her shoulders shook with a fragile sob. Sandor's gut boiled. He couldn't hear her sorrow, but the sight alone was enough to bring bile up his throat. He swallowed it back and sheathed his sword. _ Moonblood. All these tears over moonblood. _

"Moonblood or not," Harwin piped up. "The Hound still broke into the wheelhouse to steal the gown. Taking a maiden's smallclothes is foul enough, but theft from the crown is a grave crime indeed. Something must be done." 

"Sandor," Sansa whimpered. "Surely you wouldn't—" She stopped mid-sentence to clutch her stomach and let out another sob. 

Brienne picked up, "Is that true, Hound? Rifling through the girl's things as soon as the coast is clear?" 

"No," he answered, sharp. "It was Mudge. They're fucking liars." 

Brienne looked to Mudge. 

"No, he did it! I swear!" 

With that, everyone had something to say. Sansa bawled, and Brienne attempted to console her. Luke, who had stood back to watch the squabble unfold, came to Mudge's defense. Notch started yammering about his great admiration for the princess, and Harwin listed every suspicion of impropriety he had about Sandor's relationship to the girl. 

"It's not right," he huffed. "There's something not right. He's done something to her...holding something over her head. It's all amiss." 

So Sandor left. He strode to his stallion and swung up onto the saddle without a word. Harwin came bounding after. 

"Where do you think you're going, Hound? You'll pay for your treason. Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knows your ugly face. You won't get far." 

"Harwin, calm yourself," Brienne called, coming to his side. "It's only a dress." 

"Don't call me Hound," Sandor spat down. He looked over to Sansa, who stared weakly back. He tried to make his voice level despite the raw anger that bubbled in his chest. "I didn't take the gown, little bird, but I best be going." He gave Stranger a pert kick, but Harwin got in the way. 

"Little bird? I never—" he muttered under his breath. He puffed up his chest, still shirtless, then bellowed, "Listen here, Hound, if you think you'll get away with—" 

There was no chance in all Seven hells that Sandor would let the cunt finish. Every word a dagger, he rasped, "I will tell you one last time—_don't call me Hound."_

Sandor tugged Stranger's reins just-so, and being a well-trained companion, the stallion reared to his hind legs and issued a swift kick to Harwin's gut. It was a precise blow, hard enough for Harwin to fall to his knees, but not so hard to draw blood or shatter bone. 

It was exactly what Sandor wanted. 

He didn't linger to assess the full damage. He steered Stranger away from the merry band of degenerates, away from the King's Road, due west. 

In a moment of weakness, he stole one look back at Sansa. While everyone else gathered around Harwin, she knelt by the collapsed tent, collecting the strewn berries and mushrooms in her skirts. 

She was sobbing. 

If Sandor were a better man, he would be by her side. If he were a better man, he would have never left her alone in the Keep. If he were a better man, he would have been a knight. He would have defeated Gregor at the Hand's Tourney. He would have earned Sansa's favor with his honor alone. 

But Sandor wasn't a good man. He wasn't honorable. He was a burned man, a ruined man. He wore his malice on his skin, carried it everywhere, disturbed everyone. No one would ever know him. Nowhere was home. 

If he had ever had any thought to the contrary, any hope that he would be understood or redeemed, he was dead wrong. And he would rather be dead than to ever, ever, see such harrowing sadness on his little bird's face again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa suffers her moonblood without Sandor. 
> 
> Chapter track: Half Waif - Ordinary Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy--
> 
> This chapter was originally way too long, so I've decided to post it in two parts. If this one leaves you wanting resolve, worry not, I'll be adding the next part soon. 
> 
> CW for sexual violence.

### Sansa 

Brienne pulled open the door to the wheelhouse and guided Sansa inside. She dropped onto her excessive collection of black and silver furs, then let out a muddled sigh. Her body ached down to her bones. Her heart was heavy as stone. 

“Are you well enough for the ride?” Brienne queried, her tone the softest it had been all morning. Sansa nodded with a slight dip of her chin. 

“Do you want to keep hold of your gown?” Brienne extended the wretched garment, and a putrid air accompanied it. Sansa clapped a hand over her mouth and shook her head. 

“What is it?” 

“It smells awful,” Sansa whined. Not convinced, Brienne brought the gown to her nose, sniffed, and promptly gagged. 

“Oh, that’s foul,” she sputtered in between coughs. “We ought to burn the damn thing.” 

“It’s not Sandor,” Sansa whispered. 

“Speak up."

“I said, it’s not Sandor," she repeated, slightly above a whisper. She didn’t know whether or not she should be ashamed of her insight. “That’s not how Sandor smells. It’s one of the others. They’re dirtier.”

Brienne sucked her teeth, and her mind hummed loud enough for Sansa to hear. “I’ll have a word with the men on your behalf. From now on, when you’re not inside the wheelhouse, we’ll keep it locked, and I’ll make sure the men keep their distance.” Under her breath she added, “At least the Hound is out of our way.” 

Sansa's eyes filled with tears. Brienne stared coldly back. “Don’t fool yourself princess. He may smell fine enough, he may have kept you alive for a few nights in the riverlands, but his heart is dark. We’ll fare much better without him.” 

The ugly knight slammed the door shut. After a few shouts and whistles, the wheelhouse began its bumpy crawl down the road. Sansa sighed, again. Her eyes burned. Could things be any worse? Could the Gods be any crueler? 

Everything inside her twisted and throbbed. She felt like Harwin's boar, a bloated sow with a crude hand in her belly, innards smashed until only a bloody pulp remained. Sick bubbled at the back of her throat, biding its time for a chance at escape. Each bounce of the wheelhouse was a threat. 

It was lonely inside, but it was better than riding alongside her escort of surly men. 

How was it that everything had fallen to pieces? 

Brienne and Harwin got along. Luke was Robb's age and treated Sansa kindly—he had helped her find her way around Harrenhal on more than one occasion. Notch was tall, plump, and missing a good number of teeth, but he was amiable enough. Mudge was the youngest, not much older than Sansa. He was skinny, smelly, and harmless. 

They all smiled at her and offered their hands when needed. They admired Harwin, or at least they listened to him. They stared, perhaps too much, but Sansa had endured worse than starving eyes. 

It was Sandor, Sansa realized, her heart sinking low in her chest. He was the sour grape in the bunch, turning wine to vinegar, turning all her kindred guards to foes. Brienne was right. His heart was dark, and they would fare better without him. 

Yet Sansa's heart felt just as dark, all alone, languishing in her velvet-upholstered carriage with the curtains drawn tight. She had no reason to care for Sandor—a rash swordsman, twice her age and not even a knight. He didn't smile. He didn't tell her sweet things and feed her compliments as other men did. He scowled, he drank, he swore, and he fought. A swordsman couldn't befriend a princess, he could only protect her.

And Sandor couldn't even manage that much. 

Sansa sagged on the bench. Tears mingled with the furs bundled at her shoulders. She should sleep, or eat, or work on her embroidery, but there was no point. The invisible hand waged war on her insides, squeezing and prodding so violently that Sansa could scarcely breathe. 

In a moment of weakness, she pried back the curtains, but she didn't see what she wanted. There was no dark horse and dark man astride it. There was only blinding daylight, bright enough to make Sansa's head scream. She did well to replace the curtains quickly. She tried not to cry. 

At midday, they came to a stop. They reached a tiny village of no more than five thatch roof huts and a crumbling stone sept. Brienne scooped Sansa from the wheelhouse and pushed her around to greet the peasants. Men kissed her hand, women delivered their sharpest curtsies, and children came to embrace her skirts. She forced her smile and accepted offerings of grain and cured meat.

Sansa overheard Harwin asking after Sandor. "A real brute, his face ruined by flame. Have you seen him?" 

None of the smallfolk seemed to know. 

When Sansa could no longer play at being well, they set out once more. Sansa stole sleep in between bouts of nausea and cramping, and hazy visions of violence flickered in her mind. Steel clashed with steel, blood spilled to the ground, boars squealed. She didn't rest. 

At dusk the wheelhouse careened to a halt. Sansa braced herself against the narrow walls of the carriage as furs slipped from her lap to the floor. Brienne threw open the door to let in dim light and a burst of icy wind. Sansa withered. 

"We're stopping for the night, your grace," Brienne puffed. "Have you need to—" 

"No," Sansa whispered, harsh. No, she didn't want to relieve herself in front of the lady knight, again. 

Brienne lingered in the doorway, feigning an interest in a spot of flaking lacquer. She smoothed over it with a gloved thumb and sighed. "Harwin wants to have boar for dinner again. He's told the men to cook up a soup. Is that alright with you?" 

Sansa shrugged. 

"I figured. You have to eat something, your grace. I'll not have you starve on the King's Road." Brienne tried for a stern look, but her misshapen nose and brow could never quite manage more than an absurd frown. 

"Well," she started again. "If you need anything, you need only shout for me. I'll call when dinner's ready. 'Til then." Brienne pulled the small door shut and gave the top of the wheelhouse a sturdy pat before stalking away. 

Sansa rested a hand over her swollen belly. She _ was _ starving. The dull ache of hunger roared amidst the sharpness of her moontide, but she couldn't imagine anything less appetizing than boar stew.

Then it dawned on her. 

Moving slowly, Sansa shed her many layers of fur and wool to reach her pouch. She had stashed the dried winterberries inside it this morning, after—

After Sandor left. 

Sansa bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut. He was gone. All she had of him was a cloak, dagger, and a handful of fruit. 

The disappointment was familiar and no less bitter. 

Sansa pushed a single berry onto her tongue and swallowed. It was perfectly, sadly sweet, a kind parting gift from a callous man. Sansa forced the rest of the berries past her frown, one by one. They soothed her stomach, but she still hurt. 

Sansa lifted a silken pillow to her crumpled face to catch an impending sob. She was delusional to think the Hound cared for her, and no amount of beets or berries could change that. How often had he told her that he wasn’t a good man? That she would do better to forget him? She should have listened. 

He may not be a raper, but he was violent. His temper flared wildly like the sun, and if Sansa had any sense, she wouldn't look upon him. She wouldn't allow herself to memorize the licks of flame in his scars or the creases at the corner of his good eye. She wouldn't know his scent. 

Yet something drew her to him. For all the sun's harshness, it turned dull seeds to brilliant flowers, and turned brilliant flowers into ripe fruits. Sansa wanted desperately to be a peach, or pear, or pomegranate, sweet in his embrace, everything sour forgotten. 

The door flew open with a clatter. Sansa lowered the pillow, only to be greeted by Harwin's insufferably merry face. Stranger’s kick had made a horrible bruise, but it apparently hadn’t trimmed his pride. Sansa didn't so much as blink. 

“Time for dinner, your grace.” He chirped. Searching Sansa's bloated face, he queried, “Are you well?” 

“I’m fine,” she answered in a curt whisper. 

He clicked his tongue, as he so often did when he had nothing to say, and gave Sansa a syrupy look. 

"May I have a minute, please?" 

"Of course, of course. I forget myself when I look upon you. You are as lovely as a rose, your grace, with a blush to match." He reached for Sansa's cheek, but she retreated deeper in the carriage. His hand curled to a fist. "Right. I'll be just outside when you're ready." 

When the door latched shut, Sansa eased upright. She rewove her plaits by feel and fixed her ribbons into suitably neat bows. She smoothed her skirts and adjusted her girdle. She practiced a smile, but it was too heavy to keep. Her face was swollen like her belly, puffed to twice its usual size and tight enough to rupture. 

Harwin had flattered her. She was no beauty tonight. 

Sansa knocked on the door, and Harwin reappeared. He stuck out a meaty hand. "Shall we?" 

Overcome by conceit, Sansa ignored his hand and stepped from the carriage unassisted, only to have her knees buckle the moment her feet touched the ground. Harwin caught her before she fully collapsed and steadied her at the waist. 

"Your grace," he breathed close to her ear. "Are you sure you're well?" 

"I'm fine, thank you," she said to the ground. "A little travelsick is all." 

"Well, worry not. We'll get some stew for you, some wine, and all your woes will be forgotten. Here." Harwin set Sansa's arm at his beltline and secured his viselike grip on her waist. "Let's get you up to supper." 

They had set a conspicuous array of tawny tents on a hilltop. In the daylight, Sansa would be able to see for miles, but the moonlight turned the yellow fields into a fathomless blue ocean. There were no other villages, or fires, or people. The dark drowned them all. 

Harwin near carried Sansa up the hill with his fingers digging into her tender belly. He muttered nonsense as he went, telling fragments of stories as though Sansa knew already knew them. She pretended to listen—Harwin always liked that. 

They were the last to arrive at dinner. Four voracious pairs of eyes landed on Sansa as Harwin pushed her into the tent. Brienne assessed her for injuries, any untold ugliness. The other three were after her beauty. She had little to offer any of them. 

Harwin set her down at the head of the table, then took his seat beside her. All was quiet until Brienne cleared her throat. She glared at Mudge. 

"Er," he began, wringing his hands nervously in his lap. "Your grace," he found her eye through the arm of a silver candelabra, "I would like to offer my sincerest apologies for my actions this morning. It was Notch. You see, he dared me—" 

Brienne coughed, again. Mudge squeaked. "Please, please forgive me. I want to travel south with you. I won't put a single toe out of line, your grace. I'll do whatever pleases you." His brows pulled upward and he put a pitiful smile on his face. 

"It's quite alright, Mudge." Sansa gave his hand a temperate pat. "I forgive you." 

"And you, Notch?" Brienne pressed.

"Oh, I—me too, you grace. I won't be no trouble, I swear," Notch pleaded. Sansa accepted his apology with a nod. 

Luke, who admittedly was Sansa's favorite of the lot, had done no wrong and had no apologies to offer. Instead, he issued a gentle smile from across the table, which Sansa sincerely returned. 

These men her mother had sent with her were young and hungry, but they were harmless. They only wanted to see her safely to King's Landing. She couldn't be afraid. 

"Well, now that that's settled, let's eat!" Harwin bellowed.

He stooped over the table and began scooping portions of stew from a large pot in the center of the table. Sansa received hers first, then waited for the others to be served before picking up her spoon. 

As promised, large chunks of boar, parsnip, and carrot filled the bowl. Sansa whittled a parsnip down to the size of a pea but couldn't bring herself to eat it. She glanced up and lamentably caught Harwin's eye. 

"How's your appetite tonight, your grace? Luke made this special for you, lots of roots in there. Eat up." He tipped his head towards her bowl, and Sansa understood. He was going to watch her. She dutifully nibbled her sliver of parsnip, but it didn't satisfy him. 

Sansa looked at the boar. 

Everyone ate meat—it was sheer lunacy to do without. Meat made men strong. It built kingdoms, it erected castles, castles in which Sansa enjoyed a bounty of animals, butchered and cooked, turned to meat. Sandor had no right to speak on her behalf. Like everyone in all the Seven Kingdoms, Sansa ate meat.

She ate meat, but she couldn't stand the look, or the smell, or the texture. She especially loathed the sensation of it dropping down her throat and landing like stone in her stomach. It reeked of death, of flesh not so different from her own, set over flame and somehow thought of as different. 

Meat was disgusting, meat poached her appetite, but Sansa had to eat it. If she didn't eat it, Harwin would throw a fit. He would hold a knife to her lips until tears poured from her eyes, and Sandor wasn't here to intervene. Sandor was gone. 

Sansa's lip trembled. She took up an ambitious lump of boar and stuffed it into her mouth. Her throat seized, her body begged her to do otherwise, but Sansa's will was stronger. She couldn't insult Harwin again. She swallowed. 

"And how is it?" Harwin stared at her, unblinking. 

"Quite delicious, thank you. Thank you, Luke." Sansa gave a limp smile and covertly wiped away a solitary tear from her cheek. Her stomach boiled like a crucible filled with molten copper, and she pressed her fingers to her lips in case the boar attempted escape. It stayed down. 

"Well then, what progress we made today!" Harwin shouted with enough enthusiasm to rattle the table settings. "At this rate, we'll be at King's Landing in five days time. Not a trying journey in the least." 

Everyone made polite hums of agreement but busied themselves with eating. Naturally, Harwin went on, "The return of the lost princess, such a happy occasion." He gave Sansa one of his wide eyed looks, paired with a queerly childish pout. 

"Yes, happy indeed," was all she could think to answer. 

But Harwin wasn't finished. He took a swig of ale then said, "Did I happen to tell you—and this word came from our Lady Stoneheart herself—that your brother, Lord Commander Jon Snow has arrived at King's Landing as well?" 

"He's not my brother." Sansa returned, her lips drawn tight. 

"Oh—" Harwin chafed. "I only mention it because he will be travelling north no more than a moon hence." 

"Is that so?" 

"Yes, your grace, he's returning to the North, and he's taking dozens of new recruits, men who wish to fight the war beyond the wall. And I'll tell you something, if I may. I’m inclined to travel with them—not to take the black—but what a fine opportunity to come home to Winterfell. I daresay I should like to rejoin the house guard, if I would be so lucky.” 

Harwin gaped at her expectantly. Sansa wouldn't mind if he left for the north that very minute, so she could go hungry in peace, but no matter how much poison he fed her, she couldn't forget her manners. They were her only defense. 

So she finally replied, "I could write to Rickon on your behalf. I'm certain he could offer you work. Your family has served Winterfell for decades." 

"Ah, you're too kind your grace. There's no place I would rather be than Winterfell. No place safer in wintertime." Harwin paused, sipped his ale, and wiped specks of potato from his wide chin. Slowly, with the twinkle of a plot in his eye, he probed, "Do you not long to see your girlhood home as well?" 

No one but Harwin would look at her. Sansa swirled her stew and conceded, "I do long to be home." 

"Well you must forgive my bold speech then, your grace," Harwin continued, though it seemed all he ever had was bold speech. "You ought to come with us. No better escort to be had for such a journey, and besides, a Stark's place is in the North. Believe me dear girl, your father would have wanted it so, may the Gods bless his resting soul." 

Sansa withheld a cold laugh. Even if she did return to Winterfell, her father wouldn't be there to welcome her. All that waited for her was a court of wildling strangers and a wardrobe of long outgrown dresses and slippers. Winterfell weighed heavily Sansa's heart, distant and pure white like the moon, familiar and yet impossible to reach. It wasn't her home. It wasn't where she belonged. 

"But my mother…" Sansa whispered to the table. 

"With all due respect to Lady Stoneheart, your brother is king. Perhaps he would see things differently...perhaps he's not so interested in giving your hand to a..._ southron suitor._" 

Sansa's eyes flew upward. Harwin smirked, giving him the look of a stuffed ham. "Merely something for your consideration. You needn't make a decision just yet." 

Sansa tried to mimic his smile, but couldn't quite manage. Worry stitched itself in her brow. The decision wasn't hers. The decision was discussed behind closed doors and in hushed whispers. It was sixteen years in the making and no closer to an end. North, south, what did it matter? Every castle was a trap, and she was the game. 

Sansa sniffed. She forced another piece of boar into her mouth, but rot seeped into her airway and sent her into a coughing spell. Everyone stared. 

"Your grace, are you alright?" Brienne asked. 

Sansa pushed the meat down with a cupful of ale. Red-faced, tears stinging her eyes, she answered, "I'm fine." 

"Well, you look much improved since yesterday, my rose," Harwin clucked into his goblet. "Now that the sourest among us has left, we need only talk of sweet things." 

The other men muttered their approval, but kept their faces tucked into their bowls, having already had their daily fill of Harwin's blathering. Brienne stared bleary-eyed at the canvas wall and clutched a gold lined handkerchief. She offered nothing. 

"I've never known such a disagreeable fellow, and I've been all over the Seven Kingdoms," Harwin droned on, oblivious. "What a temper that beast has, always ready for the fight. Not the sort of man you'd want around a maiden, and certainly not a princess, Gods forbid. At least he had the sense to remove himself. But if I see him again—well, I may be so rash as to pull steel on him myself. It's only right, and I'd do it all for you, my dear." 

Harwin's hand landed on Sansa's. It felt like a cold, wet fish. She tried to slide from beneath his grasp, but his dead weight pinned her in place. "I'm terribly sorry for what you experienced this morning, to see such violence unfold before your innocent eyes. And though I lived to tell the tale, one word from you and I'll hunt the Hound myself. It would be my honor." 

"He's not called the Hound anymore," Sansa breathed. She beheld her captive hand through watery eyes. "The Hound is dead."

Harwin let out a nervous titter. "The Hound is dead, eh? How precious. What is he then? A mongrel? A mule? He's certainly no knight." 

"He would never be a knight," Sansa said gently, so as not to loosen her tears. "He doesn't believe in such titles." 

"Well, that explains his lack of honor, then. He simply doesn't believe in it!"

All the men laughed along with Harwin and slurped their ale. Sansa tried to free her hand one last time, but Harwin clamped down. He had the gleam in his eye that Sansa knew so well. He was on the prowl, and he was hungry. He bared his fangs. 

"He's gotten under your skin, dear girl. He's a pox. Men like him turn gold to dirt. They turn songs to screams, beauty to blight. The most noble thing he's done is to leave you behind." 

With one more slimy pat, Harwin let Sansa go. The table, the flickering candles, and five leering faces all swam in her vision. Though her dagger lay safely at her hip, her insides ached as though the blade had buried itself in her flesh. The name she longed to call, his, couldn't make it past her lips. 

"Brienne," she whimpered instead. "I would like to go to bed now." 

“But you’ve hardly touched—" Harwin began. Brienne cut him off with a thorny stare. 

"Come now," the knight said, pushing up from the table and hooking her hand around Sansa's arm. She took Sansa limply from the tent. 

The wind outside was loud and bitter. It pricked the tears on Sansa's rosy cheeks and replaced the sound of her breath with a ruthless whistle. They passed the glowing bed of embers, but Sansa couldn't recover any warmth. She shivered. 

By the dim light of the stars, Sansa knew. He wasn't there. 

Brienne deposited Sansa inside the wheelhouse. Deep circles hung below the knight's eyes as though she'd been to battle. She sighed, "If there's anything else you require, wake me. I'll be right outside," then shut the door without another word. 

She left Sansa alone. The cold filled her first, then the darkness. Each breath was black ice. She fumbled with her boots, the golden brooch on her cloak, then the laces of her bodice. She tugged her dress and chemise off her shaking body and let them drop to her ankles. 

Sansa hesitated, trembling like a autumn leaf in nothing but her hose and the swathe of cotton bound at her hips. It was silly, so silly, to reach for another nightgown and her shield herself with ivory silk, but Sansa longed for softness. She deserved such softness. 

So she redressed in her chosen silk gown and fell onto her pile of wool and fur. The bench made for a poor bed, but it was better than the ground. 

Sansa curled up like a stray kitten, cocooned in the black cloak. She inhaled its scent, because she had no will to do otherwise. There was no fire here, alone, on a winter night, but imbued in the thick wool, there was something of Sandor. The ghost of flame and smoke, a shadow of warmth. It would have to do. 

Sandor was under her skin and deeper. He was more than pox. He was stone in her chest and desolate heat in her veins, and there was no word for that. Sansa had nothing to call him but his name. _ Sandor. _

She repeated it as an incantation to the folds of fabric bundled around her. Sansa invoked the Stranger, the God of shadows, to return him, her own broad shadow. She didn't know why. Tears fell. Every drop of blood in her body felt misplaced. Her mind, her heart, her stomach, and her womb all begged to leave, but her skin trapped them within its frail bounds. She couldn't hide from her pulse. 

Sansa drifted somewhere distant, somewhere familiar, but she wasn't warm. 

Harwin carried her over his shoulders. Her bones were broken and her lungs failed to fill. 

"We're almost there, your grace." He hummed the words as a jaunty tune. 

A tent stood on the hillside, firelight glowing through the lengths of canvas. Harwin pushed through the entrance and dropped her onto a table alongside ten gutted sows. Apples garnished unsmiling mouths. Blood curdled on the planks of pine. 

"What a feast," Harwin chuckled, patting his belly. "What a feast you'll make."

But it wasn't Harwin, Sansa realized, and she wasn't in a tent either. Littlefinger glared down at her. She was in his chamber at the Gates of the Moon. She had no clothes. She was naked, hands bound, mouth stuffed with black berries. Her screams were silent. 

"What a feast," Littlefinger rasped. He trailed a finger from one sow to the next. He prodded the black holes where their eyes used to sit. Then his finger was on Sansa, tracing crimson on her collarbones, circling her breasts. He pinched Sansa's nipple and she winced. 

"There, there, my dove," he soothed. There were two hands on her breasts now. He nestled himself between her thighs. "You're mine. I caught you, and now you're mine." 

Steel glinted at his waist. Cold metal met tender skin. Sansa choked as berries clogged her throat and became her air, but she couldn't convince her limbs to budge. It was sharp inside her. It was slick and hot. When Littlefinger removed his hand, it was bright red. His eyes were greedy. 

"My sweet bastard, I made you nothing. You'll be something again, if you agree." He lowered his mouth a hair's breadth from her own, and pushed the pungent scent of turned plums to her nose. Droplets of blood decorated her maidenhair. 

"And you must agree," he breathed. He withdrew, grinned with rows of pointed, red teeth. He licked his lips. And then, he buried himself deep inside Sansa, deep enough to cleave her ribs and split her skull. 

Her screams were silent. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise on the Seven Who Are One that the next chapter will make this all worthwhile. Thank you for reading!


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa recovers from her nightmare.
> 
> Chapter track: Saint Sinner - Skeletons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the second half y'all. This chapter makes me tender as all get out! Hope you enjoy.

### Sansa 

Sansa's screams were silent until she woke, drenched in sweat, gasping to reclaim air. 

She was back in her carriage. 

She was going to be sick. 

Her stomach heaved and vomit scorched her throat. There wasn't time to fasten her cloak or tie her boots. Sansa fumbled with the latch of the door, then staggered from the wheelhouse to the grasses beyond, taking care not to disturb Brienne's tent. 

Frost soaked her hose, clumps of earth bent her ankles, and she landed on her hands and knees. Her stomach flopped again, and she whimpered. There was no place to hide, no basin, nothing but the icy ground. 

The wind carried Sansa's name, but it was distant, it was a dream. Sick fell from her mouth, sending poorly digested chunks of boar onto the grass. Next to tumble from her lips was an acrid, dry sob. 

Again she heard her name, _ Sansa_, a close whisper accompanied by quick, deliberate footsteps. She couldn't move. Grass tangled with her fingers and held her in place. Then there was warmth behind her, her braids pulled back by an invisible hand. Another gush of sick painted the ground. 

Sansa held her open mouth inches from the vile puddle. Her jaw quaked so ferociously that it shook droplets of tears, snot, bile, and slobber from her face. She wanted to sob, but she couldn't collect enough air. So she shook. 

The hand at her back swept the length of her spine. 

"Shhh…you'll be just fine, little bird." 

Sansa turned, and her face twisted. "Sandor," she mewled. 

He perched on one knee behind her, dark steel on his shoulders, impeccable lengths of chainmail on his wide chest. His brow furrowed over gleaming eyes. 

"Aye," he answered. "Take this."

Sandor uncorked the pouch at his hip, and Sansa shifted meekly onto her knees to accept it. The tart scent of wine met her nose. Sansa hesitated, then drank. The warm liquid stung her mangled throat, but softened the biting dread in her blood. She took a second sip.

_ It was only a nightmare_, she soothed. _ I'm safe. _

She returned the wineskin and tried to wipe the mess from her face with a billowy silk sleeve, but failed. Another sob crept up from her belly. 

"What's happened, little bird?" Sandor asked, too gently. He looked down at her without a hint of enmity, but Sansa couldn't match him. An uncomely scowl filled her features. 

"You…" she moaned, clutching feebly at the laces of her gown. "You left me." 

Sandor folded onto both knees, then extended his arm to steal a piece of her. "Little bird, I—" 

"No," Sansa reproached. She set two quivering fists on his chest and pushed, but he didn't move so much as an inch. Defeated, Sansa hung her head. 

"You left me," she moped. 

"I came back." 

Sansa met his grey eyes and clenched a fistful of mail. "Why, Sandor? Why are you like this?" 

"I don't—" he began, but Sansa wilted onto his tassets and wept.

"You're sour," she cried into the unyielding metal. "You're a pox."

"Is that so?" 

"Yes, that's what—that's what they're saying." 

Sandor grunted and peeled Sansa's face from his lap by her chin. "So that's what you think of me too, then? That I'm a pox?" 

Sansa's anger melted at his touch and the all too familiar comfort of his face mere inches from her own. The wind had laid waste to the paltry disguise of his hair, exposing the underlying blackness. His skin was ash and sorrow stitched to bone, so gruesome, so harsh that it lodged mountains beneath Sansa's ribs. Her breath vanished. 

"No," she whispered. She squeezed her eyes shut. "You're...you're heavy." 

"Heavy?" Sandor pressed. 

He took his hand from her chin, and Sansa's head dropped on her neck. To her lap she said, "Yes, heavy, like the sun." 

Sandor made a _ hmph _of acknowledgement and no more. A frigid gust of wind ripped across the hillside and brought Sansa back to her body, to her sodden hose and thin silk gown. She pressed her fingers, stiff with cold, to her unfeeling cheeks. She shivered. She shouldn't be here, and yet her blood was too burdensome to budge. 

"Little bird," Sandor called in his particular way. With a deft touch, he unfastened his cloak and transferred it to Sansa's trembling shoulders. "What's happened?" 

He glanced to the pile of regurgitated boar, and Sansa's eyes followed. The memory was as fresh as the bile on her tongue. She swallowed back her shame.

"I was sick," she mumbled. "I had a nightmare. It was...it was Littlefinger." 

Sandor took Sansa by her upper arms and brought her closer. With guarded desperation he pressed, "What of him, little bird?" 

"There was blood," she whimpered. "That night...the night I left him. He drew blood." Crimson shone bright in her memory, too. A slickness between her legs and something much too sharp. 

Sansa gasped and keeled over, landing against the warm silver mail on Sandor's chest. He exhaled something visceral, a solemn growl, and Sansa knew he understood. Her most precious part of herself could be cut to pieces. She could be ruined, and yet Sandor stayed. He gathered Sansa in his arms. 

"Fuck," he whispered, just above her head. "I'm so sorry, little bird. Men are...we're cruel. We're pox with no cure." 

"You're not a pox, Sandor." Sansa unburied herself and looked up. Sandor's lips twitched. "You're much more." 

"The sun," he returned. 

Sansa's lips pulled to a soft smile. "Yes, you're the sun, and I'm...I'm a pomegranate."

He indulged Sansa with a meager flash of lightness in his eyes, and she could have sworn his grip on her shoulders tightened, ever so slightly. But he looked away in the next instant, across the blue sea of grass and up to the twinkling stars. He let her go. 

"We should get you back." 

Sandor offered a hand to Sansa, and she rose on unsteady knees. When he took a step towards the wheelhouse, she planted her stockinged feet into the grasses and bolstered her hold of him. She couldn't lose his warmth. 

"No," she breathed. "I can't." 

Sandor looked to their latched hands, then up to Sansa's face. "Up here, then," he said. 

Sansa clutched Sandor's large palm and fluttered at his heels as he trudged up the hillside. They landed at the low burning pile of embers at the center of the camp, and Sandor guided Sansa to a chair at its side. She released him, reluctantly, and he began rebuilding the fire. 

"I'll make something for you, for your stomach," he said, arranging a stack of logs to his liking. 

"What is it?" Sansa queried. She pulled her knees to her chest and buried herself in the cloak.

"You'll see," he replied, curt. "I ran into a trader today. Bought some things." 

Sandor disappeared into the shadows then returned with a pot and an armful of ingredients. He crouched by the fire and set to work immediately, dumping a frightful measure of wine in the pot, then a jumble of spices and an amber liquid from an unmarked glass bottle. The wind scattered the welcome scent of ginger and cinnamon, which Sansa took in gladly. 

Sandor caught her reverie and asked, "Are you warm enough?" 

Sansa nodded. "Much warmer, yes." 

"Good." Sandor stirred his creation and stole frequent glances from across the fire, as though the breeze would claim Sansa and carry her to the distant stars. "You can have the cloak for the night, little bird, but I'll be needing it back. I don't have another." 

The blood returned to Sansa's cheeks. "Oh, I didn't—It's simply that—" she stammered, but Sandor only shook his head and watched the pot bubble, his dark features woefully unreadable. 

Compulsively, Sansa inhaled, then said, "I like the way they smell." 

That earned her a quizzical look and nothing more. Sandor filled two earthen goblets with his makeshift remedy, passed one to Sansa, then took the rickety pine chair at her side. She inspected the steamy contents. 

"My father used to make it for us when we were sick," Sandor said, answering Sansa's unspoken question. "He called it spicewine." 

"What's it made of?" 

"Well, mostly wine. There's honey, ginger, cinnamon, clove, pepper, and spiceroot, then dried lemon peel and Qartheen liqueur. I doubt it's the real thing, but it'll do." Sandor drank from his goblet and grunted contentedly. "Seven hells, that's good." He tipped the rest into his mouth, then went to serve himself more. 

Sansa took a chaste sip of her spicewine, and immediate relief bloomed in her belly. A fierce warmth spread from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. She took another, much larger sip. Then another. She smiled into her goblet. 

Sandor settled to the right of Sansa, draping a strong arm over the back of her chair. His scent—that perfect, earthy musk—enveloped Sansa's senses so completely that gooseprickles dotted her skin.

_ Perhaps I'm in a dream, _Sansa thought. Under Sandor's cloak and vigil, a goblet of spirits snug in her hands, her worries were artifice, a mummer's trick of smoke and mirrors. No garrisoned holdfast could provide such security as Sandor. No haunted hall of hearths could radiate such heat. There was not a single place in the world so comfortable as a chair of blackened pine beside an undaunted warrior. 

It could only be a dream. 

"It's perfect, Sandor," she hummed. "Thank you." 

"It's no trouble, little bird. I'm not sure it works, but it sure as sin put me to sleep when I was a boy. I think that's why my father gave it to us. It's got enough booze to down a damn giant." 

Sansa giggled, and Sandor made a sort of half grin in return. Sansa had scarcely seen him so well at ease, his brow unburdened of worry, his lips poised to unleash laughter. It was a delicacy, and Sansa was beyond starved. 

"Your father," Sansa probed. "What was he like?" 

"My father? He drank. He shouted. He never hesitated to strike us." Sandor adjusted in his seat, crossing his legs and setting his right knee just at Sansa's hip. He surrendered a torn breath. "It was...it was after my mother died. The drinking, the shouting. He tried, somewhat. He tried to keep himself together, to keep our family together, but he couldn't. So he drank." 

Sandor finished his wine in one swallow, then tossed the cup beyond the fire. Under his breath, he uttered a fraught, "Fuck." 

Sansa found herself leaning into Sandor, dropping her knees to rest on his. She needed more than his warmth, she realized. She craved the bounty of his voice. She wanted to bask in his mind and know his stories as her own. That was the true rarity, Sansa knew. He guarded his past with more vigilance than any army of knights guarded their king. 

And perhaps, if only for a night, he would lay down his steel. 

"Sandor?" Sansa peered up from her hood to win his eye. "What of your mother?" 

"What of her?" He returned, gruff. 

"You've hardly spoken of her. What was she like?" 

Sansa watched Sandor's throat tense and swallow. He pressed his lips together, most likely to withhold another curse, and he grasped the boot set on his knee with white knuckles. 

He would evade her. 

And yet, after some time, he confessed, "I don't remember her well, little bird." 

Another moment passed. Flame flickered in Sandor's eyes, which found no rest. _ You must remember something, _Sansa wordlessly urged. 

After a relinquishing breath, he said, "She sang. That's what I remember. She sang while she cooked, and cleaned, and tended to her flowers. She had a garden full of flowers, but poppies were her favorite. She planted an entire acre of them in every color imaginable. In the summer, when I had finished my chores, she would let me practice my blade on them. I'd harvest poppies with a damn dagger, pretending to be a knight all the while." 

Sandor shook his head, and that blessed half-grin breached his lips, but it disappeared almost as quickly as it came. A shadow swept over him. 

"He razed the flowers when she died. The very same day. My father and I had only just lowered her into the ground, and we came back to a graveyard of poppies. The worst part is that it was beautiful. The colors—it was like a rainbow fallen to earth, shattered into thousands of pieces. I tried to save them. I tried to learn a spell to stitch them back together, even asked my father for a needle and thread, but all he gave was a wallop to the ear. I ended up stashing a bottle of petals in my room, beneath the floor where Gregor couldn't get to them, but I imagine they're long gone. The poppies never grew back, either. They knew better than to try." 

"I'm so sorry," Sansa whispered, but Sandor didn't hear.

"It was quiet after, so bloody quiet. There was no more song when she was gone, only shouting, screaming." He sighed again and smoothed an unsteady hand over his boot. "Are you going to finish that?"

Sandor gestured to the now cold wine in Sansa's hand. She surrendered the goblet, which Sandor promptly drained and cast aside. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, but left a fist pressed to his lips. His eyes dropped shut. 

Sansa felt his darkness like her own—cold, suffocating, inevitable—and she knew his shadows beckoned him. Her heart pounded in her ribs. She couldn't let him get lost. 

"What—what did she sing?" Sansa asked the first question that came to mind. When he didn't stir, she pressed, "What was your favorite song?" 

He pried open an eye and looked down. "You really want to know?" 

"Of course." 

"You can't laugh," he warned. 

"I won't," Sansa promised. "You have my word." 

Sandor sighed, "Fine. The Bear and the Maiden Fair. That was my favorite." 

An unapologetic grin spread across Sansa's face. She tried to conceal it, but Sandor noticed. 

"Oh, I know. It's a damn foolish song, but I had a toy bear and goat. My mother—she would act out all these verses with them." 

"I think it's sweet. Who would play the maiden?" 

"My mother. She had brown hair, but I remember her being as pretty as the maiden. She made up a dance with the toys, and I would dance with her. Hells…" Sandor ran a hand through his hair, then set it along the unblemished line of his jaw. His lips curled to an arrant smile, revealing a glimmering gold tooth and missing molar. Sansa smiled, too. 

"It was ridiculous," He went on, shaking his head as he spoke. "Sometimes she would put a spot of honey on her cheek and let the dogs lick it off. She would dance with them too, our great sporting hounds, near twice her size. We loved it, though. We'd laugh until our bellies ached. I've never..." Sandor paused. His recollected joy wobbled inexpertly on his lips and collapsed. He sighed. "I've never been happier than I was with her. I tried to do the same for Margaery, to sing and dance and all, but it was never the same. I couldn't do it as well as Mother did." 

"What happened to her, Sandor? How did she—" 

"Little bird," he whispered. It was a plea. He beheld her with dark, shining eyes. "Not tonight." 

Sansa nodded, then nestled her head against Sandor's side. For warmth, she told herself. His warmth was much needed protection, and if she was to fully shelter herself, she'd need to take his hand, too. So Sansa slid her hand over the smooth plates of Sandor's metal raiment, then laced her fingers with his.

She was warm in his embrace, but sourness lingered. Bitter shadows skulked in the night, howling in the wind, clinging to her teeth and tongue, occupying her mind. Sansa knew they haunted Sandor, too. His shadows were dark sunlight. His shadows demanded drink and wanton aggression. 

Surely he wanted them gone, but what could temper their rage? 

Sandor smoothed his thumb over hers, from her slender wrist to the tip of her nail, over and over. Together they watched the fire crackle and fade to ember. 

"It's better that they're dead," Sandor confided. "Mother, Father, Margaery. They shouldn't know me like this. They'd be ashamed, and it'd be well justified. Thirty three Godsforsaken years, and what do I have? No land, no title, no knighthood, not even a fucking wife. I've got nothing...I am nothing. It's better that they're dead." 

"Sandor—" 

"Spare me. You said it yourself, Sansa. It's a tale as old as my scars. I'm a pox, but worse. Pox obliterates legions of men with no remorse, no hesitation. But not me. I wasn't strong enough to shed guilt or brave enough to confront flame. I ran. I tucked my tail, and I ran as far as I could. A pox would have stayed." 

"You're wrong," Sansa whispered. Tears pooled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She had asked for this, to know his ghosts, but they crushed her heart with the weight of the moon. Her breath was a mire. "You'll have your keep, Sandor. You'll be there in less than a moon. And you could have a wife, surely my brother—" 

"No. I would rather give myself up to the Stranger than impose marriage on a diffident bride. I'll do better on my own." 

Sansa lost her words. She held fast to Sandor's hand, because for all the planetary burden on her body, the wind picked her up and lifted her to the heavens. She would join the moon, the sun, and the stars. She would weep with the rain and sing with the breeze. She would never touch down on the ground again. 

"I'm sorry, little bird. I'm sorry I left you behind." Sandor's voice shook like thin ice on a vast lake. "You shouldn't know this...this blackness. I don't know your song. I don't know of sweetness. I'd learn for you, if I could. I'd be a better man. I wouldn't run. I would stay and fight." 

"Stay, Sandor." Sansa bade from afar. Her voice floated amidst the stars. "Stay with me." 

Sansa could carry the sun. She could shoulder it in the furthest reaches of the sky or sink it in the deepest ocean, and she would do it gladly. Together they would conquer flame and stitch together the dark folds of space between the stars. Sansa knew this as sure as she knew her pulse and her breath, because here, shrouded in Sandor's warmth, she had everything. 

She was invincible. 

Sansa swam through the stars, and when she tired, she fell back through the clouds. Cradled by their pillow softness, she landed in an ocean of poppies. She wore a heavy woolen gown, white as snow. Its skirt wound into the horizon like a frozen river. 

Sansa wasn't alone. 

A bear ran towards her. A bear and a crowd of peasants, an entire township. They were her people. They smiled, and Sansa knew: she was home. _ Sing, _ they chanted, s_ing for us! _They circled close and took Sansa in. So she sang for them. She danced hand in hand with children, crones, goats and dogs. She knew every step. 

Then it was time to dance with the bear. She reached for his mighty paw, but his claws slipped easily through her ivory flesh. Petals spilled from the wound. _ I called for knight, but you're a bear_, Sansa cried. The bear roared. He flashed his pointed teeth and thrashed the poppies to ribbons. He took Sansa in his arms and thrust her to the sky. _ Maiden fair, I've come for the honey in your hair, _he growled, then stuck his great tongue to her head.

_ I have no honey in my hair, _ she pleaded, but the bear was gone, and so were the townspeople. There was only Sandor. He dug his strong fingers into her slight waist. He rested his face in her long tangles of hair. He gasped, roared, laughed, and sobbed. Sansa cradled his head. She swept a hand over his broken flesh. _ A bear so fair_, she hummed. _ I married a bear, but I had no honey in my hair. _

_ — _

"In the name of all Seven Gods, what have you done to her?" 

A rough hand jostled Sansa's shoulder, and she blinked in the pale light of dawn. Her joints were stiff as ice. She laid across two chairs, swathed in more layers of wool than she remembered. Brienne's sour face was inches from her own. The knight began stripping the blankets one by one. 

"Did you bring her out here?" She spat, jerking Sansa upright.

Sansa followed the knight's wrathful stare. Sandor stood by the horse cart, lazily chewing a cut of dried meat. _ So it wasn't a dream. _ Sansa pressed cold fingers to her lips—what had fallen from them in the night? 

"The little bird couldn't sleep," Sandor said through disinterested mouthfuls. He nursed his ale and came toward the fire. "Something with her stomach. I kept watch of her out here." 

Brienne's face purpled. To Sansa she huffed, "Come, your grace. You gave me a terrible fright, missing from her carriage, only to be found sleeping under the stars in next to nothing. Seven forgive me." 

Brienne tore the last bit of wool from Sansa's shoulders—Sandor's black cloak. Gooseprickles lined her skin when it met the chilly morning air, and though she shivered in her silks, hot blood rushed to her face. She hadn't meant to leave the carriage in such a sparse state. She had forgotten herself. 

"Yours, I assume?" Brienne threw the cloak to a patch of mud at Sandor's feet. He cocked a brow and exchanged a glance with Sansa. Her blush travelled from her cheeks to the tip of her nose, and she quickly drew her arms around herself. She couldn't find her voice. 

"I'll have words for you later, Hound," Brienne hissed. She hooked her arm around Sansa and tugged her over flattened grass through their camp. "We need to get you dressed." 

As they barreled down the hill, ire boiled in Sansa's throat. _ He's not a dog, _ she wanted to say, but the words languished on her tongue. Tears burned her eyes. _ She has no right to speak to him in such a fashion. _

When they reached the wheelhouse, Sansa tore her arm from Brienne's grasp. She glowered daggers at the mannish, red-faced knight, which Brienne returned in kind. 

"I don't know what imprudence has come over you. Sneaking around at night, risking your safety, cavorting with the likes of _ him. _" Brienne scrunched her lumpy nose. "I don't care if we're out in the wild. It's no way for a princess to act. Your reputation is at stake." 

Sansa's lower lip dropped and quivered. "My—I wasn't—I was sick. I couldn't sleep," she sputtered. Her head spun with such heat she couldn't collect her thoughts. "You know nothing of being a princess." 

“I know your family wouldn’t approve.” 

Sansa caught her lip then, and her teeth clenched tight. This wouldn't do. She hadn't been towed across the Seven Kingdoms, from Winterfell, to the Red Keep, to the Eyrie, to Harrenhal, and back again to be treated thusly. She hadn't survived a war clinging to her scraps of virtue, spared death time after time, to be treated thusly. 

She was a princess now. She was _ the _princess. Tattered, travel weary, or stuffed in a cage—it didn't matter. She could still sing, and her subjects would have to listen. 

"You know nothing, Brienne," she scolded, words sharp enough to shave glass. "This escort was my mother's choice, and it's _ my _escort. I issue the commands. You'll do as I say, and I'll do as I please. To all Seven hells with propriety." 

Brienne's mouth fell open and shaped a soundless retort. Though her brow stayed low, her eyes were infirm. 

"Nothing is the same," Sansa exhaled. "This war made monsters out of everyone. This war turned me to a bastard. It turned cripples to kings, princesses to princes, and ladies to knights. Who are you to speak of propriety, when you share a bed with a gelded lion?" 

"Your grace—I didn't mean offend, I only meant to—" 

"No, you listen to me." Sansa put a delicate yet decisive finger to Brienne's breastplate. "Men change. Men are more than the colors of their master's banners, and you know that as well as I do. I trust Sandor, my mother trusts Sandor, and my sister trusts Sandor. He's protected me from the moment I left Winterfell, and he'll protect me until his dying breath. Withhold your judgement or leave—that is not a request." 

Sansa wrenched open the wheelhouse door and set one foot inside. She spared one last glance to the flagging knight. 

"And if you ever call him Hound again," she croaked, a great sob lodged in her throat. "I'll have you hanged." 

With that, Sansa threw herself inside and slammed the door behind her. Her sobs broke free, and she sprawled unceremoniously onto her furs. _ Brienne deserved such harshness_, she seethed. Sansa draped herself in the black cloak, then doubled over as a swell of sharpness plundered her womb. _ Yes, _ she assured herself. _ It was only fair. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr flees the Vale. 
> 
> Chapter track: Devon Welsh - Dreams Have Pushed You Around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey sorry I disappeared for a month :( I was busy freaking out about the virus and also...animal crossing. Two hundred hours of gameplay later moontown has a five star rating, so at least there's that. 
> 
> Any who, here's a little slice of Petyr's life (sorry in advance).

###  Petyr

He was coming for her. He had spent every waking moment tracking the girl down from his refuge in the Gates of the Moon. The riverlands crawled with his people—bad people, smelly people, small people. People who wanted coin, and Petyr always had coin. 

Petyr scarcely left his chambers, scribbling notes on slips of parchment to be affixed to raven’s feet by Corbray and Corbray alone. There were fewer people to trust within the algid walls of the Gates. There were eyes on him, constantly.  _ Who was the bastard, _ they all wondered,  _ and where did she go?  _

They would never dare level their questions to him directly, and Petyr wouldn’t delay long enough to find out. 

He had found her. 

The riverlands were in tatters, but the road remained well-traveled. She rode west from the Quiet Isle with the Lannister’s dog, a conspicuous gemstone in too fine a gown and with too bright of hair. Many mouths carried the news back to him, and Lemoncloak brought the best news of all—the girl would journey south to King’s Landing. Her undead cunt of a mother had commanded it. 

Catlyn intended to wed the girl, Lemoncloak said, but that was no surprise. The girl was a useful tool, her maidenhead a precious commodity, and there was no better way for a tender-footed king to strengthen fraught alliances. The only question that remained was which alliance her maidenhead would secure. 

The Blackfish told Petyr her fate was uncertain. The boy king had kept mute on the issue, unbothered by his council member’s inquiries, though there were plenty of intrigued parties. Lords, princelings, and knights circled like sharks, waiting for the sweetest bait to arrive. They were starving for her grace. 

Petyr had no choice but to immerse himself to the tumultuous waters of court. The Blackfish had promised moons ago that the girl would be his, Winterfell would be his, the North, and then— 

Well, that would have to wait. 

He needed the girl back, and he was going to get her. He would come quickly by sea, slip unnoticed into the city and deeper into the castle walls, and the girl would be his. His sweet dove would flutter back to him, coo her apologies, and surrender her hand. 

Petyr had but one final piece of business to tend to before his departure. 

—

The chamber council emptied, one sorry lord at a time. They had responded to Petyr’s plans to journey south with narrowed eyes and dubious brows, but they didn’t put up a fight. They had learned to submit, or at the very least keep up appearances. 

Perhaps they plotted to prevent his return to the Vale, to find a more apt Protector for their dribbling Lord Sweetrobin, but it didn’t matter. Petyr wouldn’t be back. 

Yohn lingered in the chamber, ever the thorn in Petyr’s side. If anyone had schemed to take the girl away, it was him. He thought himself good, noble, and true, an unflappable defender of virtue. Truthfully, Yohn lusted for the girl as any man would, he simply knew his chance for her hand was nonexistent. 

So he clattered up to the head of the table in all his great bronze regalia and stopped at Petyr’s side, a gloved hand settled comfortably on the hilt of his sword. Petyr slid from the hefty oaken chair he had earned as Lord Protector and positioned himself just behind it, his tragically small hands stretched wide over the top rail. 

"Yohn,” the name curled from his lips like bitter medicine. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your enduring company?" 

Petyr rested an unfaltering stare on his substantial opponent. Yohn never dared to challenge him on the level plane of the council table. The knight made certain to drag his hulking frame and cumbersome shadow face to face, or rather face to breastplate, but Petyr had learned early on in his youth that size meant nothing if you had no mind to match it. 

Petyr had learned to read faces and devour secrets. He had learned to hide his own. For all his strength, Yohn had no need to learn these lessons, so he loosed his nerves on his hilt, rapping his thick fingers one at a time. 

He growled, "King's Landing, then. Why journey now?" 

Petyr stayed himself against the force of Yohn’s voice, deep enough to rattle Petyr’s ribs and shake grit from the stone walls. He allowed himself a mere second to recuperate, then answered, "As I explained, Yohn, the young king has required all lords to bend the knee."

"You know what I mean. Letters have poured in from the Throne for three moons. Why now?" 

"I merely waited for the appropriate time,” Petyr sighed, falsely nonchalant. “I'm a busy man, you see. So if you're quite finished, I'll be on my way." 

Petyr ducked around the large knight, allowing himself a good arm’s distance, or so he thought. Yohn dropped a forceful hand to Petyr’s shoulder. 

"Not so fast, Lord Baelish." 

Petyr's spine stiffened. He rotated slowly on his heels, his eyes lowered to predatory slits. 

"What?" He spat out his malice. 

"You think me a fool. You've paid the debts of my House, hoping to buy silence, but I won't be bought." Yohn advanced, one lumbering step at a time, until he forced Petyr against ice cold stone. The knight scowled beneath his long grey whiskers and stuck a finger to Petyr’s chest. "No, you've exhausted my patience. Played this court as fools. We won't stand for this." 

"What exactly is it then, that you don't stand for? Enlighten me." 

Yohn grunted. "The girl, Littlefinger. I know about the girl." 

"My bastard? Yes, she’s died, sadly. Clansmen." 

"Oh, spare me. That girl was no bastard. She was none other than Sansa Stark, and she’s been seen riding west to the crossroads." 

Petyr swallowed back fear before he could think otherwise. 

Oh, he had expected to be discovered. He was ready for this. Petyr had rehearsed his tale countless times, and he had intercepted every single letter intended for Yohn for years. 

And Petyr knew what Yohn didn’t—that Sansa now rode south to rejoin her good king brother. 

Offering well-practiced calm, Petyr said, "You assume correctly, Yohn. It was Sansa Stark. And her disappearance, her seizure, has torn me to pieces." 

"You're a liar,” Yohn bellowed, putting flecks of spit on Petyr’s nose. “You had plans with the girl. Everyone knows, Littlefinger.”

Petyr’s brows pushed together, ever so slightly. Yohn noticed. 

“I want the truth,” he demanded. 

“If you insist,” Petyr sighed, forcibly relaxing against the wall. He willed water into his eyes. "I loved her, the dear Lady Stark. We fell for each other in King's Landing, though our match was imprudent, and we were obliged to hide our true feelings. There came a point when we could no longer bear it, so I brought her here, to the Vale." 

Yohn removed his filthy finger from Petyr’s silk doublet and fell back a step. “I don’t believe this…” he said, soft as he could manage, his hand now firmly lodged in his bushy beard. 

“It wasn’t safe to reveal her identity, not during the war. Her aunt knew her, of course, and agreed to go to any length to protect her niece from the wrath of the Lannisters. I was waiting for the right moment to reintroduce her, though my time never came.” 

“Tell me, how is that a girl who loved you so dearly wanted to escape? Hm?”

“Hah,” he scoffed. “I am no blind fool. I will discover whatever conspiracy you and your treacherous lords devised to separate me from the girl. To steal a princess is very grave treason, and to risk her life in the Mountains of the Moon—it’s unspeakable.” 

Yohn opened his mouth to speak, but words failed him. Petyr suppressed a smirk. “I’m going to bend the knee, you see, and inform the young king of the treachery that has transpired here. It’s a shame, truly, but it must be done in person.” 

Yohn’s face purpled with frustration, and Petyr cast a quick glance to the door—if only he could squeeze past the knight, then he’d be down the mountain and at the docks in no time. The seconds were thick as bog water. 

“This is ludicrous. Utter insanity,” Yohn finally answered. “A sordid affair with a maid of sixteen? Star crossed lovers? I don’t believe it. Don’t believe a word of it.” 

Petyr shook his head, and this time his smirk broke free. “I don't need you to believe a word of it. You see, our union was blessed and confirmed by the king himself.” 

“What are you trying to say?” Yohn released his sourleaf-scented breath on top of Petyr’s head. He took one step too close, but Petyr didn’t flinch. 

“What I’m saying, dear Yohn,” he said with words carved to fine points. “Is that the Lady Stark and I were betrothed. Sansa will be my wife.” 

“No…” Yohn breathed. 

“Yes,” Petyr countered. “And I’m going to collect her. Now, if you would be so kind,” Petyr took one step to the side, then another, his eyes flickering between Yohn’s face and blade. “I’ll be on my way.” 

Yohn didn’t put up a fight. He grimaced, he puffed his swollen chest and tightened hold of his hilt, but he didn’t pull steel, and he didn’t play chase. He let Petyr go. 

So go he did. Petyr took to the gates, his heart wild in his ribcage, his breath limp. His belongings were already stacked in a cart at the foot of the Vale, ready to be tugged to sea, and on to King’s Landing. 

He was free for now, but he needed to catch his sweet dove. 

She would sing his tale as truth, as she always did. 

She would come flying back to him. 

She would set her hand lightly in the crook of his arm and raise her soft lips to his cheek. “Thank you, Petyr,” she would whisper. “I owe you the world. I’m yours.” 

Petyr had never known a love like hers, gentle, chaste, timorous but sure. Not even Catlyn could give him such a feeling of peace, of being known, of being held aboard in the stormy seas of his mind. Petyr would sacrifice anything to reclaim that feeling. 

He was coming for her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah Petyr, full of schemes and even more full of shit! 
> 
> The next chapter will be out soon (already drafted in full and mostly edited). Prepare yourself for some horny Sandor content. I had a crisis of faith this month where I really stalled on this story, but the fact that things are getting spicier really pushed me through! We're getting to the crush phase of the story and I'm soooo ready to share it with y'all. 
> 
> 'Til then!


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The escort spends the night at the ivy inn. 
> 
> Chapter track: Tyler, The Creator - EARFQUAKE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is. 
> 
> This chapter has caused me more grief than literally every other chapter combined. I don't know why. I'm pretty sure I keep on editing it forever and still not get it right. Siiiigh. 
> 
> A couple of notes: 
> 
> 1\. There's nothing less sexy than hose and braies for men, so while more historically accurate, I'm definitely following GRRM's lead and writing men's pants as breeches, which I imagine as wool/cotton/leather leggings with maybe some laces on the front, depending. 
> 
> 2\. An extra content warning - my Sansa is and has been sixteen years old. Sandor is horny for her now and he was horny for her when she was younger, too. It's gonna start to jump out a lot more so just wanted to give y'all a heads up. 
> 
> Anyway, here goes nothing! Nervous about this one, but just needed to hurry up and post the dang thing.

### Sandor 

The Crownlands were fucking boring. 

Sandor had spent far too much of his life gallivanting around these insipid dun hills from one tavern, one desultory whore, to the next. He had seen enough. 

And yet, he found himself again pounding down the King's Road, winter air sharp in his lungs and steel heavy at his hip. Stranger took each wend and dip with grace, having fully recovered from the stress of his riverlands journey. Sandor had fed his courser a surplus of oats, hay, and hushed adulation to bolster his strength. He rode well. 

He rode far ahead the rest of the party, whose tepid apologies hadn't satisfied Sandor in the slightest. At the very least they left him alone. 

Most of the time. 

The noon sun lazy in the sky, Brienne drove her palfrey to ride alongside Stranger, a godsent miracle that her plodding piebald mount could keep pace. Sandor ignored her, as usual, and hurried his stallion with a curt kick. 

Brienne followed. 

"Sandor," she called at his heels. "I would like to have a word with you, if I may." 

"Speak then," he issued, keeping a stalwart stare on the grey horizon. No sign of townsfolk yet, but he jostled the reins anyway. They were set to arrive at Tendrilton by nightfall, to an inn there, and they couldn't arrive fast enough. 

Brienne, now unfortunately riding abreast of Stranger, said in a near shout, "The princess told me of an incident, when she was in King's Landing." 

"There were lots of incidents," Sandor grumbled. 

"It was an incident between the both of you." 

Sandor turned and lowered his brow, disregarding scraps of green flame that toiled in his mind's eye. Of course the little bird would run her sweet mouth. 

"Yes, she told me." Brienne flashed a haughty grin. "You came after her during the riot. Spared her the same fate as Lollys Stokeworth." 

Sandor grunted, and his heart resumed its beating. The riot was the least of his concerns. The day was scalded in his memory, as all moments of bloodshed were, but the only casualty was one paltry limb. He had achieved much finer victories than that. 

"It was unremarkable," Sandor deadpanned. "It was my duty, nothing more." 

Brienne pursed her lips and searched Sandor's face for something he'd never dare show the gawkish knight. She wanted to know why the little bird flocked to him. Why she asked Sandor to cook her meals, why she wore his cloak, and why she devoted undue attention to brushing Stranger's mane each evening. 

Sandor's guess was as good as Brienne's.

"You killed a man for her," she said. "It's remarkable enough." 

"Four men," Sandor corrected. 

Brienne narrowed her eyes. "Four," she groused. "Well, that would certainly earn a maiden's affection." 

"It might." 

"You don't even care, do you?" She decried. "A thousand knights would kill a thousand more to win the favor of a girl as fair as she, and you've done it in four." 

Heat flooded Sandor's scars. He forced a breath through set teeth. "I've done as I've been told and nothing more. What the girl makes of that is no concern of mine."

At that, Brienne huffed and tore back down the road, sending swirling clouds of dust in her wake. Sandor cooled his blistering flesh against the steel of his spaulders in one aggravated swipe. His breath was much too short. 

What did the Maid of Tarth expect from him? That he would bear his black soul to her? What Sandor wanted from the princess was no different than any other man—he wanted to bury himself inside her. He wanted to drink her sweetwine scent and rest eternal on her supple chest. His interest in the girl was simple. It was unremarkable. 

But what did Sansa want from him? 

That was the thought that put flame on his face and blades of ice in his veins. No maiden should care for him as she did. No maiden should take his hand so openly beneath the starry night, or trill his praises, unprovoked and plentiful, to anyone willing to listen. Her interest in him was sickening.

It was foul. 

And it was all Sandor could think of. His crumbling keep, his ungotten hounds, and his trivial dreams paled in comparison to her, his little bird. 

So he wasted hours with her pretty picture in his muck-ridden mind. Her snowy fingers trapped in his bearish grip. The gentle weight of her knees on his, her head stowed delicately beneath his arm. She fell upon him easily, with immaculate manners and a quelling stare. It turned the unseemly clods of boar in his stomach to bile. It made his breath shallow as a puddle in freshly paved stone. 

Worst of all, burdened by her image, time passed quickly. 

They reached the modest township well before dusk. Plain stone cottages with thatched roofs and crooked wooden doors sprung up from the roadside. Townsfolk steadied their carts and paused their chores. They offered Sandor unfriendly eyes, but their hostility always melted to awe at the sight of the wheelhouse. 

This is how the ritual began. Peasants dropped their tools and spilled from their homes. They lagged at the heels of horses four times their size, if only to catch a glimpse of the precious load sealed within four ornate walls awash in black lacquer. 

They loved the princess. They'd never seen her face or known her laughter, but they loved her all the same, and for a good reason. She was unearthly. Her grace was made of the brightest stars and the softest clouds. She belonged in the sky, but she rode landbound through the bland countryside, her airy smile and pearly teeth a gift from above. 

So when the escort came to a stop just outside an ivy covered inn, a cluster of disheveled commoners swarmed the conspicuous black carriage. Brienne pushed through the lot and extracted the princess, who emerged ruby-bright as always. 

Sansa greeted her people. She kissed babies. She slipped gold pieces in the pockets of beggars. Small children tugged at her skirts, and she crouched to their level to listen to their nonsensical stories.

Sandor patrolled. He guided Stranger around the crowd, though there were no more than thirty bedraggled peasants gathered at her side tonight and none of them like to cause trouble. Mostly, he watched. Her grace captivated him the same as if he were a common crownlands wench, and there was no point in denying it. 

As darkness fell, Brienne shepherded the princess inside the inn. The other men drove the cart and horses to the stables. Sandor ignored them as he settled Stranger in an unoccupied stall and fed the courser a covetous portion of hay. He kept the stable boy away with a menacing look, then idled away until full dark. He wasn't ready to rejoin the party. 

They had accepted Sandor back, barely, and all by Sansa's command. True, she spoke of him when he wasn't around, but _ everyone _ spoke of him when he wasn't around. Since the day Sandor's face rested in flame he had become known. 

Sandor couldn't hide, so he had chosen to be strong. He had chosen to master steel—sword, axe, hammer, or blunted dinner knife, it didn't matter. Sandor spent his adolescent nights testing his skills by candlelight until every muscle in his body burned as badly as his scars, until he collapsed to the rushes and fell fast asleep, his hands riveted to a leather-bound hilt.

He would wake and do it all over again. 

If he had to be known, Sandor wanted to be feared, and he had succeeded. His countless hours of battle and bloodshed built his daunting musculature and his cruel demeanor. Only men as foolish as Harwin dared to cross him. Most men settled for knowing leers and hushed japes. 

Sandor had spent his entire life being seen, his ugliness laid bare for the masses. Tonight was no different. 

Still, the prospect of dozens of sweltering bodies packed inside four close walls pulled preemptive sweat from Sandor's skin, because amongst them would sit the princess. She knew him too, she saw right through him, but she wasn't afraid. 

She laid waste to every hour of his practice. 

Sandor would need a drink, or two, or three. The promise of ale lured from him the stables and out to the overgrown inn. Sure enough, firelight and the din of merriment burst from the windows. Sandor ducked through the lopsided doorway and grabbed the first serving girl unlucky enough to cross his path. 

"I'm with the princess," Sandor growled, meeting her sunken eyes. "Take me to my room." 

Though the flagon of ale in her hands quivered, the girl gave a somber nod and shuffled down the corridor. They passed the entry to the common room, but Sandor willed himself to disregard the cloying drone of drunken revelry sounding from within. 

She would be there already, surely. Bathed, hair combed, a winsome smile on her blushing cheeks. 

A greedy creature roused in Sandor's gut. Gods forbid, he craved her. 

The serving girl, a scrawny thing of no more than ten years, stopped at a doorway and meekly eased it open with her hip. "For you, Ser," she said, lowering her head. 

So he was a knight, then. How charming. Sandor swept the flagon from her feeble grasp and got rid of her with a dour look. The door latched shut behind him. 

The room wasn't horrible—a far cry better than the crossroads. He had a bed of fresh straw, not quite so big to fit his frame, but long enough. Beside it there was a wooden washstand with a clay basin, and a battered wardrobe sat in the far corner. Frayed tapestries lined two of the walls, stitched with trite designs of maidens and unicorns in beds of dingy blossoms. They were ugly, but Sandor had seen worse. 

He dropped his bag and hoisted the pitcher to his mouth, eager to fight fire with fire. Most of the ale made it down his throat, but some dropped from his gaping cheek, splashed against his mail, and splattered onto the rushes. Sandor brushed what liquid he could from his stubble with an armored shoulder, then cast the pitcher aside.

He caught a whiff of his stench and cursed. He was fucking filthy. Days-old sweat seeped through his underclothes and out through his mail, sharp enough to aggravate even the most forgiving nose. 

Sandor shed his layers of steel, one buckle and plate at a time, stacking the lot beside the wardrobe. Underneath his armor, a sodden tunic and breeches clung to the contour of his muscle. He shed those, too.

Sandor went to the washstand, splashed himself with the scant water in the basin, then scrubbed his skin with a battered nub of soap. The water quickly grayed, and with an annoyed grunt, Sandor dumped the dregs over his head. 

Bathing like a soot-covered songbird. It was pitiful but necessary, a familiar act after so many years as a perpetual stranger. 

Sandor slumped onto his bed and let the rough wool bedding soak the water from his skin. He had that queer feeling he often got when he molted his armor. The many pounds of metal were a bittersweet burden on starving muscles. He wanted that shelter, that weight, something to carry heavier than his wounds.

Men knew of Sandor's scars. Sansa knew something of Sandor deeper than wrecked skin. If he was smart, he'd stay far away. 

But he wasn't smart. He was hungry. 

Sandor redressed in dark breeches and a deep blue tunic. He strained to button a sleeveless leather jerkin over his broad chest, but succeeded. He dabbed the day's pus and blood from his burns with a kerchief, pushed his damp hair into place with coarse fingers, and put on his belt—scabbard, sword and all. 

Suitably numb, Sandor exited his room and clambered toward the ruckus of the common room, but he hadn't had nearly enough drink for what awaited him. 

People. 

Lots and lots of people, and all their acrid smells and inevitable heat. 

Three oak tables ran the length of the hall, their benches filled by a dizzying assortment of peasants, merchants, sellswords, and any number of wayward travelers. A female singer batted her lute before the roaring hearth, captivating the loneliest men amongst them. 

Not all of the faces were unfamiliar. Against the back wall, a dark-featured boy with a patchy beard nursed a foamy mug of ale. His keen brown eyes flickered with recognition, but Sandor couldn't place him quick enough. 

In the center of the room, draped in bright emerald velvet, Sansa jaunted to her feet and waved. 

"Sandor, come, dine with us!" She beamed, collecting numerous pairs of curious eyes.

The princess had bathed. Soft red hair flowed like liquid fire across her chest and down her back. An unfaltering smile rested on her rosy cheeks, and her dress—it was _ the dress_, the one she wore all through the riverlands. The one that cinched her delicate waist and pushed her breasts atop a low, elaborate bodice. 

Sandor was helpless. Blood crashed below his belt and stayed. 

His pulse urged him towards her, to the table she occupied with the rest of the escort. Sandor fruitlessly avoided rash stares and stealthy pantomimes as he went. He watched his name, _ Hound, Dog, Clegane, _fall from meddlesome lips, and his burns flared their contempt. 

The only kind welcome he received was hers. Sansa made room for him at her right, forcing a pair of chestnut-skinned merchants to slide further down the bench. 

"Here," she charged, patting the newly vacated patch of wood. 

Sandor stuffed himself between a weary merchant and the princess. The tabletop sat much too low. It dug into Sandor's legs and split them so that his left knee settled square against Sansa's thigh. Her eyes fluttered downward, then came back up in an instant to rest on Sandor's suddenly much hotter face. She didn't pull her leg away. 

She leaned into him. 

Sandor didn’t have time to recover. From the other side of the table, face gleaming with grease, Harwin cried, “What timing, Clegane. Her grace was just talking of you.” 

Sandor grunted his displeasure, his eyes anywhere but the princess. They had put out the best food for her—whole roasted pheasants, piles of mashed potatoes flecked with herbs, white loaves of bread, and bowls of bright yellow butter the size of Sandor’s fist. A bountiful spread, but where was the— 

"Try the ale," Sansa bade with a graceful lilt of her chin. "It's quite dark. I think you'll like it." 

Sandor followed Sansa's gesture to the half-drained flagon tucked between two platters of garlicky sausage. He poured a sloppy measure into a mug, drank. 

The little bird was right. The ale was more than dark, it was delicately scorched malt and barley married together, aged to damnable perfection. It was ale fit for royalty. Ale uncasked for a princess. Sandor sipped as slowly as he could, but the beast in his belly demanded more. 

"How is it?" Sansa urged. 

Sandor managed to meet her eye. "It's good," he agreed. 

"Oh, I knew you would love it," she gushed, brushing featherlight fingertips across Sandor's forearm and scooping up her own mug. The pewter vessel looked foolishly large clasped in her frail fist and poised against her lips. She drank eagerly, then set down her cup.

"I quite like it too," she tittered with a coy hand set to her lips. 

So that was how she had earned her ruby flush.

It disguised every dot across the dainty bridge of her nose and the tops of her cheeks, up to her forehead and down the point of her chin. Her chest flushed too, Sandor realized. A gentle pink swathed the few dozen sweet freckles atop her breasts. 

"What is it, Sandor?" Sansa quipped, batting her lashes under an inquisitive brow. "Have I spilled something?" 

Faulting words, Sandor's lips twitched. He lost her attention anyway. 

"The princess told us of all the blood you've shed on her behalf," Harwin bellowed. He picked his teeth with a finger as greasy as his jowls. "She's truly taken with your—well, you wouldn't call it honor, of course. So I suppose she's taken with your..._ brutality_."

Sandor’s jaw clenched shut. Notch began to laugh, but turned it into a malformed cough at the sight of Sansa's unamused stare. 

"Harwin," Sansa chided. "I didn’t—I only said—” she began, flustering, then turned to Sandor. “I was only telling them of the broken men, the ones from the riverlands.” She pouted to her trencher, “And besides, it was Brienne who asked.” 

Sandor shrugged, grateful that his mug was metal and not like to break under his ever tighter grip. He unbound his jaw long enough to take a good, lengthy swig, then went to tear a pheasant clean in two. He needed only to eat. Once he was full, he’d be gone. 

Sansa’s leg jostled against his knee, reminding him he wasn’t gone just yet. 

“Now, two men at once isn’t even that many,” Harwin continued. “Why, the most I’ve ever taken in time must be at least ten, if not a whole dozen. I’ve seen myself through many an ambitious match, and here I sit today, not a scratch on me.” 

Sandor let out a mean guffaw into his drink. The welt on Harwin’s chest would still be near black and ungodly tender, though a stained tunic covered the mess. 

“Something funny, Clegane?” Harwin demanded. 

“Nothing I wish to speak of,” Sandor answered, leveling a stony stare. He polished off his ale and poured more. 

The little bird watched him for a moment, then turned back to the rest of the party.

"Did Beron ride well today, Harwin?" She queried, drawing half a dozen unfriendly sets of eyes from Sandor. 

Harwin indulged her gladly, of course. 

Meanwhile, Sandor angled his head to shield his scars from the lot of them, alternating mouthfuls of meat and ale to distract from the roar of his blood in his head, and lower. Sweat soaked through his tunic at the armpits and trailed down his spine. 

Somehow he had known this would happen, that there would be too much heat in the air and nowhere to hide. So he drank. 

Sansa chatted idly with the others of the Crownlands, of court, of noble houses past and present. She received admirers from surrounding tables and dispensed the necessary courtesies. Sandor buried his face in his food, looking up only to receive presumptuous scowls and duly reciprocate them. 

All the while, the soft flesh of Sansa's leg bounced restlessly against his knee, _ thump, thump, thump, _and Sandor could see it. He could see himself sweeping a hand up her skirts, seizing that supple, restive thigh in his bare hand, and trapping it stillness. He could pull her apart, suck the sweet marrow from—

A pheasant's bone crunched in his merciless fist and shattered his runaway thoughts. Sandor dropped the mess, adjusted his legs against the table, and tugged his jerkin over his half-hard cock. 

"Sandor," Sansa cooed, her eyes exactly where he didn't want them. She lifted them to his face, a minor improvement. "I said, do you like her, the singer?" 

Sandor looked to where the dirgey tune of _The_ _Winter Maiden _rang out. A poor choice of song for dinnertime, but nothing would fall well on Sandor's ears tonight. 

"Her name is Bethany Fair-Fingers. A wandering woman singer is so odd, isn't it? But I like her. She's pretty, too." 

"She's alright." 

She was a dark haired lass, probably Sandor's age. She had swollen knuckles from years of putting her hands to use, but her figure was trim, her face smooth and pleasant. Any woman—with the exception of Brienne—was a fair sight to Sandor. 

He hadn't a woman in..._ fuck_. He couldn't think of such things, not with her gentle, persistent friction at his side. 

Sandor would ruin himself. He downed another serving of ale to hurry along his demise. 

Thankfully, the pair of merchants at his right made their leave, and other travelers followed suit. That boy from before was gone, the one with the knowing gleam in his eye. Some of Bethany's admirers gathered up around her perch and cast her drunken lines of affection. It wasn't as noisy in the hall, but that made her lackluster voice all the clearer. 

At last, Notch pushed up from the table, and Mudge did the same. 

"I'm off to bed then," Notch said, stretching his spindly arms then patting his round belly. 

They turned to leave, and Sansa stared expectantly at Harwin. 

"Oh!" The northman startled, slamming down his cup with a slosh and stuffing his dirtied kerchief into his belt. "Of course, of course. As ever, it's my utmost honor to tend your flock." 

Harwin bared crooked teeth. He would do better to keep that mess tucked behind his fat lips, but he lacked sense. Sansa delivered a scores prettier smile and gave the men a languid wave good-bye. 

Brienne cleared her throat. "Your grace, I do believe we should rest as well. We'll be off early in the morning." 

Sansa glanced quickly around the much emptier room and the smoldering hearth. Her eyes landed on the singer. "I'm not ready for bed," she answered indignantly. "I want to hear the music." 

Brienne glowered. "I'm exhausted," she puffed. "You have to come to bed." The knight stood to prove her point, and though space opened to Sansa's left, she didn't move an inch. 

"Sandor will stay with me." Sansa hit him with her brilliant eyes, and her mouth pulled to a puckish pout. "Won't you?" 

Gods, she was pretty. And so fucking young. 

Sansa shifted her leg just-so. 

"Won't you?" She repeated. 

Sandor coughed into his fist, as though that would undo his arousal. 

"If I must," was his reply. 

Brienne pursed her lips and lowered her brow. "Fine," she conceded. "Take her to our room when she's ready, preferably before dawn. And if anything happens—" 

"Brienne," Sansa warned. "Nothing will happen." 

It took another moment for Brienne to accept Sansa's assurances, but after a cold farewell, she peeled off through the oak-framed entryway and out of sight.

Then their table was empty, except for the debris of a vanquished meal, and still Sansa kept her leg pressed to Sandor's knee. She let out a soft sigh, her eyes on the lute player, her high cheekbones and the point of her nose glowing in the firelight. Her finger circled the rim of her half-empty cup, over and over. 

Bethany strummed and sung along to _Her Little Flower_, a lewd, rather poorly timed choice of song. "_Pry open the petals if you dare, _ " she wailed. "_The little flower is bashful yet, but with the softest touch, she's sure to share._" 

Sandor pushed up the sleeves of his tunic to get some air on his skin, then set two tight fists back on the table, one planted on his mug. 

Oh, he had been uncomfortable plenty of times in his life, beyond uncomfortable, he had suffered, bled, burned. This was far worse. He could smell her. Something subtly viscous, like nectar cupped in tender spring blossoms, fell from her unblemished pores and saturated their shared air. Sandor couldn't breathe, but he couldn't flee, either. 

Sansa listened intently to Bethany's uncouth lyrics. Her chest slowly rose and fell, and Sandor thought of what was just beneath her bodice. The soft, round swell of her breasts, each one tipped in perfect pink, almost peach. Would they taste as sweet as they felt? 

Sansa turned abruptly and caught Sandor's stare. She dispensed that godsforsaken smile—sparkling teeth, plush lips—and toyed with a stray auburn curl at her temple.

"Your dress," Sandor slurred, his tongue looser than he'd like. "You wore the day of the Hand's Tourney." 

Sansa grinned. "I did. I thought you would have forgotten." 

Sandor shrugged with a tick of his head. "It's pretty. And that day—that was the last I saw Gregor." 

"I remember. You won the tournament. And you saved Loras, the poor thing." Sansa giggled into her ale, and the sound of it sent fresh blood coursing through Sandor's veins. He laid his palm flat on the table and dug his nails into the yielding oak. 

"It wasn't much of a victory," he managed. 

"It was very brave." Sansa sighed, then added, "I should have given you my favor." 

Blood rushed to Sandor's face too, left and right side alike. "You haven't told them everything—" He faltered, losing himself. "Did you tell them everything that's happened? Between the two of us?" 

The query lingered bitterly on his tongue. _ The two of us. _ Gods, he was a fool. He had promised the girl all those years ago he'd slit her throat if she ever spoke of his affairs, and now here he sat, prone, pinned in place by a princess. 

Sansa's mouth fell to flat a line, and her eyes betrayed her surprise. She blinked. "Sandor—no, I would never—not everything. Not of Gregor, not the…" she lowered her voice to whisper, "Not the fire." 

"And the night of the battle?" Sandor urged, before he could think otherwise.

She didn't answer right away. She pulled in her lower lip and searched Sandor's face, a small crease forming between her brows. "Arya knows," she said, though she was quick to add, "Arya already knew. She said—she said you told her. She said you wanted to take me, but that you used much harsher language...she wouldn't say exactly." 

Sandor scowled, trying to recall his words to the princeling. He made sure to never speak of her sister, to guard the pitiful ache in his chest that she left behind. He must have gotten drunk and spilled his shame, as he did now, his head full of wet sand, his tongue woefully unbound. 

But the shine in Sansa’s eye made him safe. It cooled the burn in all the right places. His heart beat quickly but freely, like a moth's wings. 

"I wouldn't tell anyone else, Sandor," Sansa assured. She set a delicate hand across Sandor's rigid forearm, pacifying him. 

"I shouldn't have come to you that night, little bird," he confessed, but he didn't quite mean it. He only regretted the fear in the girl's eyes. "I was drunk, beyond drunk, I was—" 

"You were frightened," Sansa finished. 

He found her eye and released all his breath. She was young, but she wasn't oblivious. 

"Aye," he ceded. "But that's no excuse." 

Sansa squeezed his arm. "I forgive you, Sandor. I won't tell another soul of that night. I wouldn't—I wouldn't know what to say." 

Sandor let out a bleak laugh. "Oh, there's plenty to say—that I stowaway in maiden's chambers and put knives to their throats—though it doesn't much matter. I know they think it of me already, and it's just as well. It's better that way. That's how I want it to be." 

"Sandor," Sansa censured. "You can't mean that." She ran her cold fingertips down the length of his arm, tracing pronounced veins to his knuckles. “I've spoken of you, but only because I want them to see you as I do.” 

“And how do you see me?” Sandor watched her wandering hand. She was a such fragile fighter. 

She sucked her lip again. "You're strong," she said, smoothing over a half moon scar below Sandor's thumb. "You're brave, and you're trustworthy." Sansa nestled her fingers atop his. "I want them all to trust you." 

Sandor grunted. He didn't want their trust. He wanted _ her_, and now, as before, he didn't care what it would cost him. He would lay down his life for whatever sweetness she slathered on his skin. 

But he wouldn't steal it. 

With his uncaged hand, Sandor hoisted his mug to his lips, and he took a good, long drink. 

"I know what they think," Sansa went on. She put her eyes on Sandor's scars and cocked a sly brow. "They think you'll ravage me at the first opportunity. But if you were going to take me, I'm quite certain you would have done so already." 

Ale flew down Sandor's windpipe. He heaved a mouthful of liquid back into his mug, then made a crude napkin of his sleeve. _ What in all Seven fucking hells. _

Sansa went as red as wine and her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, I didn't mean—" 

"You're fine, little bird." Sandor said, begging his pulse to settle. "I would never—not by force." 

"I know." Sansa sighed and dusted a rogue breadcrumb from her skirts, though her hands lingered in her lap, dangerously close to Sandor's knee. "But...you wanted to?" she pressed. "You wanted to take me that night in my chambers?" 

"Little bird," Sandor warned in a near growl. He looked down at her with low-lidded eyes. "Why are these things on your mind?" 

"I want to know...I want to know what men want of me...why you're all so...so _ hungry_." 

She lifted her gaze to Sandor's face, blue eyes glimmering with need. 

"We're starved for beauty, little bird," he forced out. "At best, we want to preserve it, and at worst, we want to devour it. To see it gone." 

"And what did you want with mine?" Sansa urged. Her hand drifted to his knee, settling as weightless as a fallen flower. "Did you want to preserve it, or devour it?"

"Both," he answered. _ And I still do_, but he left that unspoken. 

"I should have gone with you," she whispered. 

"I should have been more gentle," he returned. 

Silence fell, and Sansa's hand stayed put, mere inches from where Sandor's pulse ached most urgently. His breath was shallow as sin. 

He could, if he wanted. He could ruin her, and ruin himself alongside her. It was what everyone expected of him. It was what he should have done years ago, if he had the strength. Yet somehow, the girl was stronger. She kept him in place. 

The music went quiet. Bethany packed up her lute, and side by side with an adoring commoner, she ambled down the darkened corridor. Only a few stragglers remained. Serving girls threw dubious glances toward Sandor and Sansa, but they kept their distance. They didn't stoke the hearth. 

Sandor decided to spare himself and the girl. He extricated himself from her hold and stood. 

"Time for bed," he declared. He thrust out his hand, because he knew she would accept it with a dashing little smile. She did, and they left the common room bound together. 

Sandor liked the feel of her skin on his. Where he was rough, she was smooth, where he was large, she was small. She was everything he wasn't. 

She was perfect. 

She coiled her arm around his as they made their way through the hall. Sandor's tunic was damp with sweat, but she didn't seem to mind. She clung to him, put all her weight on him, and let him guide their unhurried pace. Sandor could carry her forever and never tire.

All too soon, they stopped in front of the door to her room. She untangled herself and faced Sandor by the torchlight. She glowed, her face framed by a halo of fiery curls. Her pink lips curled at corners.

Sandor couldn't find words. He beheld her, speechless, agitated. His heart thrummed in his ears. 

"Thank you, Sandor," Sansa finally said. She rested a hand over his heart. "For everything." 

Sandor couldn't resist. He needed more of her. 

So he took her cheek in his broad palm, covering half her delicate face, letting her rest there. She dropped her eyelids and exhaled a wistful hum. 

Perhaps it was the ale that commanded him, but Sandor found himself sweeping his thumb along the slender slope of her nose, lifting her chin, falling closer. He set his lips to her forehead, gently. 

He breathed. Gods, did he breathe her in, and all at once, he knew her scent. 

Honey. 

But not just any honey. Not honey from a maester's hive, methodically cultivated, harvested, and bottled. She was wild honey. Alpine honey, the riches of thousands of wildflowers distilled to golden nectar. Forbidden nectar. It was boyhood delight in high summer, climbing trees, smacking down hives, shattering the spoils, dipping your hand where it ought not to be. 

Getting stung, but savoring every last drop. 

Sandor drank in the sweetness that drenched the air. He pulled away only when he had his fill. 

"Sansa," he breathed on to her skin. "I would do anything for you." 

He lingered for a moment longer, then released her.

"I know," Sansa answered. She stared at him, clasping his jerkin, water dancing in her eyes. "You've shown me." 

Sansa let him go without another word. She slipped silently through the door and into the darkened room beyond. 

Sandor stayed, swaying unsteadily on his feet. His words rattled in his skull. 

_ I would do anything for you. _

Oh, he certainly would. He would slay a thousand more knights, lords, or even kings for her. Anything, anything, to win her favor. 

The hand that once held her face clenched to fist. 

It was all so wrong, but he wanted it. And he couldn't help but think that Sansa wanted it too, that he wouldn't even need a knife to convince her. 

Sandor stumbled back to his own quarters, unceremoniously throwing open the door and slamming it behind him. He tried to catch his breath as he adjusted to the dark and quiet within. Embers cracked in the hearth. An aimless wind whistled through the window. 

He had saved himself, barely, but he was so fucking hot. Sandor ripped off his jerkin and tugged his sticky tunic over his head. He went to the washstand, only to discover that both the basin and pitcher were bone dry. He swore under his breath. 

There was nothing to be done. Nothing to cool the burn in his blood. 

Sandor fell into bed with a grunt. That wasn't entirely true. He slid a hand over his bare abdomen and hesitated at his waistband. His blood had boiled all night, but not with anger or loathing. It was because of the girl—her pretty scent and snug dress, her radiant skin and even more radiant hair. 

Sandor's cock stirred and swelled against the seams of breeches. It was a wayward demand, and Sandor had no choice but to surrender. He pulled his laces loose and took hold of himself. 

"Fuck," he groaned. He was hard, harder than he'd been in years, since—

Since the night of the Tourney. 

But at least that night he could unleash his lust on a serving maid. There was no one for him tonight. No one but himself. 

Sandor's cock throbbed impatiently in his own crushing grip. He clasped his wool bedding with his spare hand. "Fuck," he groaned again. "Fuck." 

Withholding nothing, Sandor stroked himself, dragging his fist furiously over his length, his pulse raging just beneath his fingers. 

The girl knew what she was doing, tightening her bodice like that. Settling the tender swell of her breasts so high, so..._ prominently_. And her hair, those red curls, they begged to be twisted, pulled, anything but left idle. 

He wanted to put his entire fucking face in that sweet hair. 

Sandor's breath hitched, and his hips bucked up to meet his pace. 

He would do more than bury himself in her hair, of course. He'd taste her little pink tongue. He'd put her wandering hands lower, where he'd wanted them all goddamn night. For all his girth, she'd need to use two hands, and still she'd be too gentle. 

The dress, the dress would stay on, but all he needed was her mouth on him. That featherlight kiss she'd put on his good cheek, but down his neck, down his chest, to where his blood screamed for her touch. 

She'd be timid as any maiden would. Chastely she'd look to him, cheeks full and blushing, and he'd give her what she craved. He'd feed all her sweet words back to her. _ Good girl, _ he'd soothe. A soft pucker, a swish of tongue, from the base of his cock to the tip. _ That's a good little bird. _

Sandor pushed a ragged breath through his nose. He quickened his pace, sparks flying in his bloodstream, and he kept her picture in his head. 

He wondered how she felt beneath those emerald skirts, how smooth her ivory flesh would be on her thighs and higher. Sandor wanted his hand on her unplucked flower. He could've done it tonight. He could've sent all the dirtied dishes crashing to the floor and replaced them with his little bird. 

He'd pry her open, and he'd be gentle too. What wetness would he find there? How many fingers would fit inside such a delicate creature? His hand would slide in readily, he knew, because she wanted him too.

Sandor moaned, loud. He clamped his free hand to his face and inhaled deeply. She was still on his skin. Her sweetness flooded his senses, and his hand went up and down, faster, tighter. The ache inside himself was building, rising to that peak. He was close, and Sansa, Sansa wasn't far behind. 

How long would she last on his hand? He could melt her, turn her to a puddle of her own sticky nectar. _ Sandor, _ he imagined her calling out, _ Sandor, please, I need more. I need you. _She'd sing for him, she wouldn't be able to stop herself, and she'd savor every thrust, every curl of his fingers. 

And she'd smile. 

Sandor's core tensed, and he was there, far up in the sky, gasping her name as seed spilled over his fingers and trailed down his forearms. Light danced behind his eyes—it was her, her white smile, her flaming hair. She was there too. She had done this to him. 

_ Stay with me_, he pleaded, but it was too late. She was gone as soon as she'd come. 

Sandor's eyes flicked open. He grunted, annoyed and alone, and he wiped his hand on the bunched up wool beneath him. 

What was he doing? 

What had he already done? 

She was a fucking princess. A maiden. A maiden whose virtue was promised to some greedy southern lord. He would never take her. 

At least, not by force. 

Sandor huffed and turned to his side, putting himself face to face with a threadbare tapestry. A maiden with what once was golden hair, but was now a mousy brown, stared back. She swam in a floral sea, a demure smile couched on her cheeks. 

Sandor would never escape his lust. He would never escape these maddening visions of soft hair, spring blossoms, and temperate touch, because she had put him under her heedless spell. 

She had conquered him. 

All Sandor had done was his duty—watching over her, keeping her precious heart beating and her blood flowing warm in her veins. He had done his duty and nothing more. He didn't deserve such fairness, all her pretty words and smiles. He would never have her. 

Yet he found sleep, with the hand that once held her cheek set before his face, honey heady in the air, silent melodies ringing in his ears. He didn't stir. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🚨🚨🚨 horny alert 🚨🚨🚨
> 
> It felt somehow both abrupt and overdue at the same time, but I'm having fun, so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey south continues with a minor road bump. 
> 
> Chapter track: FKA Twigs - home with you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! This is a cute and tender chapter, and I'm so excited to share it with y'all. 
> 
> Some clerical updates - I finally hunkered down and did my most detailed outline yet (you would be horrified if you saw how scattered my notes were on my phone). Soooo, with confidence, I can now say I'm planning 50 chapters total for the story. That makes me...well...halfway done (lol) but the second half is gonna so juicy. 
> 
> I also rejoined tumblr @ prettybadmagic.tumblr.com (it had been six years!! woof). I'll be posting there when I update and just adding my SanSan thoughts that might be too long for twitter. I'm chock full of them. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy 😊

### Sansa

The wheelhouse jerked to a stop, and Sansa stuck her arms to the opposite bench to steady herself. Luke was never much good at driving the carriage, but at least she was no longer sick with her moonblood. Something else fluttered in her belly, something pleasant and warm. She didn't mind. 

The door flew open. Brienne put herself in the opening. "We've arrived, your grace. Brindlewood. Would you like to get some fresh air?" 

Sansa blinked in the few rays of afternoon sunlight that spilled over Brienne's shoulders. "Do they know?" She always asked this, and the answer was always the same. 

"Yes," Brienne clipped. She threw a glance behind her. "They're..._ eager _ for you. But they seem harmless." 

Sansa sat straight up and craned her neck to see past the knight, but it was no use. She saw only the tawny crisscrosses of thatched roofs. The wind carried a muffled hum of excitement, however. They had already gathered for her. 

"Very well," Sansa replied. She smoothed a hand over her single plait, then flattened out the wrinkles in her ebony skirts. She would have never worn such dark velvet as a girl, but now, almost a woman grown, she had grown fond of the color. Besides, her favorite part of the gown was the bright gold embroidery of a weirwood that spanned the bodice up to the high collar. 

She felt pretty again. 

Sansa extended her hand, and Brienne dutifully took it. 

"We'll stay as long as you like," Brienne said in Sansa's ear as she guided her from the carriage. "Hand me your gifts and we'll put them in the cart." 

When Sansa's feet landed on the dusty ground, she immediately lifted her hand to block the sun. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she realized just how many people had gathered. The closer they came to King's Landing, the larger the towns, and this must be the largest yet. Sansa couldn't even count the heads or track all the faces. Dozens, maybe even a hundred people clustered around the carriage. 

And they were _ shouting_.

For her. 

Sansa dropped her hand and pinned her practiced smile on her cheeks. Her heart suddenly beat much louder in her head, but she didn't let it show. She stepped towards the crowd, checking first that her escort was close behind, and they were. Brienne hovered at her elbow. Harwin sat atop Beron to her left. Notch and Mudge reclined against the cart, and Luke dropped down from his perch on the carriage just behind her. 

And Sandor—he moved so quickly that often Sansa couldn't catch sight of him. But he was there, in his dark armor astride his dark horse, his black hair rolling to his spaulders. He drove Stranger nimbly around the commoners. He caught Sansa's eye, but he didn't return her smile. 

"Good afternoon," Sansa called to no one in particular. The townsfolk stopped their chattering and fixed their eyes on her. She swallowed back her nerves, then offered her standard greeting. "Thank you for allowing us passage through your town."

There was a hushed silence. A few long seconds passed. 

Sansa's cheeks wobbled, but then, from somewhere unseen, a cheer broke out. Sansa caught only pieces of their cries—her name, lost princess, hail to the king. She giggled at their effusive enthusiasm. 

They descended on the carriage, waving their hands, thrusting bundled babes in her face. There were so many of them Sansa scarcely knew where to begin, until she felt a tiny hand tug at her skirts. She looked down to see a small girl, no more than five years, with a mess of blonde curls atop a pudgy face. 

"Look," the girl exclaimed, holding a rag doll as high as her little arm would allow. "My doll, she's a princess too." 

Sansa's set a hand over her heart, as if that would stop it from puddling in her chest. The doll was an ugly thing, a dingy bundle of cotton with rotten straw for hair and dangling button eyes, but the sincerity on the girl's face made Sansa weak at the knees. 

"She's lovely," Sansa said, stroking the doll's tattered apron. "What's her name?" 

"Um…" the girl thought for a moment, looking nervously up to her mother. "She's called Princess Sansa." 

"Oh, that's so sweet. And what's your name?" 

"Brella," the girl answered. "I'm four," she added, sticking out three fingers. Sansa laughed. 

"Such a pretty name, Brella." She scooped up some of the girl's curls, then placed a kiss on top of her head. "Make sure to take care of Princess Sansa. We wouldn't want her getting lost again." 

"I won't!" Brella assured. "She's too pretty to leave behind." She mimicked Sansa's kiss on her doll's head, then burrowed into her mother's skirts. 

Sansa turned to Brienne and gestured to Brella's mother with a slight nod. Brienne stuck a hand inside the purse at her hip, then put some coins in the woman's hands. 

"Thank you, princess," the woman said, clutching the silver pieces against her chest. "We've prayed for your safe return." 

Then there were more peasants in Sansa's face, clambering for her attention, and for Brienne's coin. Sansa received an amber jar of honey from a hunched crone. A boisterous young man pushed a haunch of cured pork in her arms, which she courteously foisted onto Brienne. She dispensed kisses onto the cheeks of babes, and collected kisses on the backside of her hand. An old man forced a clammy kiss on her cheek, which made Brienne grunt a warning, but Sansa waved him gracefully away.

She realized, suddenly, that there were far too many people to greet. It may take a whole day, and her face had already begun to ache. 

"Brienne," she called to her knight, breathless. "I'm ready—I need to—" 

"Right away, your grace." Brienne took Sansa by the elbow. There had been a time when Sansa loathed Brienne's touch, but as their journey wore on, she took comfort in her keeper's attentiveness. It couldn't be faulted. 

Brienne pushed through the tangled crowd back to the carriage, Sansa in tow. Sansa tried to keep her head up, to perch it prettily atop a pin straight back, but there was such heat, the closeness of so many people. Arms flew out to intercept her. Her name slipped like snakes to her ears in countless strange voices. 

"Oh," she gasped, tripping over her own feet. To collect herself, Sansa searched for Sandor and Stranger, that welcome smudge of blackness, but she couldn't place him. 

"Make way," Brienne commanded a cluster of townsfolk. "Make way, now." 

Bodies parted to let them pass, and Sansa watched her step. She couldn't trip again—what would they think of a princess who couldn't walk a straight line? 

But that worry flew from her mind in the next instant. 

A shout rang out across the square, much louder than all the others, and it wasn't joyful. It was angry. Someone was booing her. Both Brienne and Sansa whipped around, and she heard it, clear as the sun in the sky. 

"Stark whore! Go back to the North!" 

A collective gasp worked through the crowd as everyone searched for the source of the insult, but Sansa didn't have much time to look. From above, like putrid rain, a handful of manure landed on her face. It flew between her parted lips, weighed down her eyelids, and filled her nose with its rotten stench. Sansa staggered backwards onto something hard, Brienne's armor, or perhaps the carriage, and choked for breath. 

"Who threw that!" Came a shout, alongside a new warmth at Sansa's hip. Rough fingers dug into her stomach. 

It was Harwin. 

"Your grace, here," he panted, before smearing the coarse sleeve of his tunic over her face. She sputtered and batted his hand away, but she couldn't find her footing; she couldn't flee. 

Her eyes fluttered open only to see chaos unfold. No one was still. Peasants rushed to their homes, but there were too many people, so they fell over one another, forcing each other into a harried standstill. They were crying, pointing—_cowering, _Sansa realized. 

A great dark blur dashed through the lot of them. Sandor. They leapt out of his way, lest they be toppled, but then he was gone, galloping down the road. He was after something, someone. 

Sansa forced herself upright, pushing away Harwin's hand, and she saw. While Brienne and the others kept the carriage from being upended, Sandor went after the man who dared defile her. 

It was an unfair match. There was a yelp, a metallic thud, and a crunch. Everyone turned to watch, and moments later, they parted. They gaped, still and silent, as Sandor tore through them astride his stallion, dragging a battered man by the collar of his tunic. 

"Oh my," Harwin gasped behind her. 

Sandor stopped in the center of them all. He threw the man at Sansa's feet.

"This is the one," Sandor growled. "What should we do with him?" 

Sansa clasped a hand to her mouth, and she found herself stumbling forward, falling to her knees. 

The man wasn't dead. He writhed on gravel road, dust ridden, clothes tattered, blood spilling from any number of open wounds. Sansa set a hand on his shoulder. 

"Please," she began. "If I may, what—what is your name?" 

The man peeled his face from the ground, and Sansa forced herself not to wince. His face resembled raw meat. Blood gushed from his mouth and nose, and the top layer of skin on his cheeks had been scraped clean off. He set a hand to his face and made a sorrowful, wet noise unlike any Sansa had ever heard. He might have been sobbing. 

"What is your name?" Sansa repeated, her voice firm despite the fluttering of nerves in her belly. 

"Tom," the man blubbered. "M'name's Tom." 

He hoisted himself up to his feet, and Sansa did the same, quickly retracting her hand. 

"I'm sorry princess," Tom grovelled, eyes downcast. He swiped at his face with his sleeves, but no amount of wool could soak up the blood that spilled from his cheeks and dripped to his boots. "Please—I shouldn't've—don't let'm kill me, please. I don't want to die." 

Sansa looked briefly up to Sandor, but he offered nothing but an impenetrable scowl. Her lady's instinct guided her hand to her girdle, to her kerchief. She plucked it from its pouch then lifted it to Tom's face, dabbing at the stream of blood below his nose. 

"Tom," she soothed, "Dear Tom. I won’t have you killed. I promise I'll serve you well, if you'll give me the chance." Her once white kerchief came away deep crimson. Sansa curled it into her fist. "That's better." 

Tom blinked and beheld her, his jaw trembling like an autumn leaf. "Th-th-thank you, princess. You're so lovely—I'll be good—I'll be true." 

Sansa gifted him a shaky smile, and it sufficed. Tom picked up her hand, put his mangled lips to it, then wasted no time in tearing away through the crowd and out of sight. 

Sansa let out all the breath she had withheld, setting a quivering hand to her belly. She wanted to collapse, to break into a million shards, but another shout rang out. This time, it was a cheer. 

"Here, here!" Someone cried. 

"To the Hound!" Said another. 

"Long live King Bran!" 

"And may the princess live even longer!" 

Sansa replaced her smile and gave a wooden wave. "Thank you all," she called. "Thank you." 

And miraculously, they began to disperse. A few townsfolk waved back, some bowed, and they all set out, back to their cottages, fields, and flocks. 

Sansa sighed, depleted. She brought a hand to her face and frowned—a thin, flaky crust of manure had dried on her skin. She could _ smell _ it. She could scarcely ever smell herself, but this was distinct, and it was awful. 

Boots thudded on the ground beside her. Sandor stuck out his hand. "Your kerchief, little bird." 

Sansa dithered, overcome by his sudden shadow, but she collected her wits and pressed the soiled scrap of cotton into Sandor's outstretched palm. 

"Come now," he charged, pressing a hand to her back. "We ought to be on our way." 

Sansa meekly nodded. As Sandor ushered her back to the wheelhouse, she waved away the concerns of Brienne and Harwin. She didn't want their smothering attention. She wanted to be alone, unseen, and mostly, she wanted to sleep.

When they reached the carriage, Sansa faced Sandor. "How do I look?" She asked, her voice limp. 

Sandor _ grinned_. 

Sansa's lower lip dropped, and tears pricked her eyes. 

"Don't pout," he reprimanded. "It's a sorry sight, but it can't be worse than me. Here—" Sandor reached for his canteen and gripped her chin. "Better close your eyes, little bird."

Sansa complied, though she scrunched her face when frigid water met her bare skin. After getting Sansa wet, Sandor scrubbed her clean, sparing none of his strength. 

"Better," he said, removing his kerchief.

Sansa set cautious fingers to her raw skin. It was smooth enough, and the smell was gone.

Sandor clicked his teeth. "Your hand, too." 

He plucked Sansa's hand from her face and doused it with water—she hadn't even noticed how much of Tom's blood had clung to her. Sandor worked his kerchief across her palm and between each of her fingers. Sansa wished he hadn't worn his gloves. 

"Are you ready to ride on?" Brienne called, approaching them atop her palfrey. "We'd best put some distance between this place."

"Yes," Sansa nodded. She blinked away the rest of the water on her eyelashes. "I'm quite ready." 

The knight acknowledged Sansa with a grunt and a swift nod, then looked to Sandor. "Well done, Clegane," she said, her nose wrinkled as though she was the one who had manure thrown on her face. "You're quick on your feet, I'll give you that much." 

"It's nothing," he replied, but Brienne had already kicked her palfrey and set out to rally the rest of the escort. 

Sandor opened the door to the wheelhouse, taking Sansa's hand to help her inside. She sprawled onto her furs and sighed. 

"Will you be alright?" Sandor queried. He leaned into the doorway, blotting out almost all the daylight. She liked when he lingered at her side, an attentive guard to his frail mistress. He had no choice, but Sansa had a suspicion he wanted to be there, to be close. 

"I'm fine," she breathed. She twisted a cluster bear fur in her fingertips, holding onto Sandor's cool grey stare. "I wish you could ride in here, with me. Then I would be better." 

Sandor's lip twitched. "Little bird," he began. He dipped his head further into the carriage and glanced from bench to bench. "I wouldn't fit. And besides, who would look after Stranger?" 

Sansa giggled, "You're right. Stranger needs you." She extended her hand. "Thank you, though, Sandor. I mean it." 

"I know," he answered, delivering the required kiss. "I won't be far." 

He gave her hand a parting squeeze, then sealed Sansa inside. 

She sunk low on the bench, half-buried in all her blankets. The ghost of his kiss lingered on her skin. Just like the kiss to her forehead, one half was pillow soft, the other coarse as gravel. Timidly, Sansa lowered her lips to that same tender spot. She left them there. 

She wished he could ride with her. She wished he could give more than kisses to her hand. 

Sandor was right, though. He wouldn't fit. His broad frame would fill an entire bench, with his muscular legs splayed and his broad shoulders square against the wall. His breath and pulse would warm the air, so much so that Sansa wouldn't even need her furs. It would be like their journey through the Riverlands, when they shared their heat on horseback. 

Sansa shuddered, and gooseprickles lined her skin, but she wasn't cold. Something glowed inside her, almost as though she'd had a weightless goblet of firewine. 

She slept the afternoon away. 

She woke at the haze of dusk, when again the carriage ground to a halt. She caught herself before she slipped completely off the bench, then waited. 

Brienne didn't come to her door immediately. There were voices, hushed, but not angry. Sansa pried open the curtain to spy. They had arrived at a farmhouse, whose windows scattered orange light across the otherwise dark and empty hillside. Sansa recognized the shadowy outlines of Brienne and Harwin, deep in conversation with a stranger. 

Brienne turned and called out to the other men, then stalked towards the carriage. Sansa swung the curtains closed and reclined in her seat just as the knight appeared in the doorway. 

"We'll sleep here tonight, your grace," she bade. "Arthor and his family—they don't have much to spare, but at the very least he has a bed for you. We've offered up some of our stores for dinner. Does that sound well enough?" 

Sansa nodded. 

"Good." Brienne stuck out her hand. "Come on, then." 

The knight tugged Sansa from the carriage and down the lane to the house. The other men busied themselves by undressing the horses and setting their tents just within the low stone perimeter of the farm. Sandor looked up from his work laying stakes, and Sansa raised her hand in timid greeting. He returned only a slight nod. 

The common room was small and cramped, fitting only one long table and a wide hearth. A woman crouched before a bubbling cauldron, attended by a few of her knob-kneed children, while the others sat idly on the benches. They all stopped and turned when Sansa entered. 

"Hello," she called out, remembering to smile. "Thank you for letting us rest here." 

A few long seconds passed, where Sansa looked from one child to the next, their eyes wide with wonder. 

Finally, one of the girls piped up, "You're the princess." She held her small mouth agape, showing a mouth full of missing teeth. 

"I am," Sansa answered. 

With that, the children rushed to Sansa's side, falling over one another to introduce themselves. There were seven in all, from babes of three years to boys that were near Sansa's age. They all had treasures to show her, rhymes to recite, and so many questions to ask. 

They pulled Sansa to the table, where she sat with them as a thick stew bubbled lazily in the cauldron, filling the air with the savory scent of garlic and herbs. She entertained them with stories from Winterfell and every castle thereafter. She told them of her formidable journey through the Riverlands to rejoin her family, and of the brave friends who helped her along the way. 

Brienne left and returned with their last cask of ale, which she and the lady of the house, Alys, eagerly tapped. The knight sipped her drink and dozed in the corner while the children kept vigilant watch over Sansa. It was like being at the crossroads all over again, with all their tiny voices and toothy smiles. Sansa didn't even have to force her own. 

And she didn't notice the time slipping away, or the moon rising high into the sky. One of the younger boys, Harrold, had only just brought out a stool he had hand-carved himself, when the rest of the escort pushed into the common room. Harwin came first, then Luke, Notch, and Mudge, and finally Sandor. He squeezed through the door frame and ducked to avoid hitting his head on the bundles of dried garlic that hung from the rafters. 

The children fell silent. 

Sansa rose to her feet. "This is my escort,” she announced. She gestured to each of them. “There's Harwin, Notch, Luke, Mudge, and Sandor.” 

It was an awkward dance, finding space for all of them to sit in a room that little space to offer, but they managed. The children forced themselves closer to Sansa, with the small ones on the laps of the bigger ones, and the men stuffed themselves into the bench opposite. Harwin was quick to distribute ale. 

"He's scary," came a whisper at Sansa's side. It was Jena, a girl of eight years.

"He's _ big_," her little sister Mariah replied from atop her lap. They gaped shamelessly at Sandor, who sat across from them and did an unconvincing job of ignoring their brash attention. 

"Girls," Sansa shushed, meeting Sandor's eye for only an instant. "It's not polite to stare." 

They lowered their eyes, but Jena tugged Sansa's sleeve, waiting until Sansa dropped closer to whisper in her ear, "But what's wrong with his face?" 

Sansa cupped Jena's rosy cheek. "They're burns, sweetling, from a fire. It wasn't his fault." 

"Oh," she breathed. The girl stole another glance in his direction, but Sandor only had eyes for Sansa. His lip twitched. 

"Sandor is from the West," Sansa said, holding his gaze, loud enough for all the children to hear. "He has his own keep there, and he rides a great black stallion." 

An older boy Dickon cried out, "The black horse is yours?" His jaw hung open in disbelief. 

"Aye," Sandor answered gruffly. "His name's Stranger." 

Dickon and his brothers exchanged awed looks, then burst with any number of questions. _ Where did you get him? How fast does he ride? Are you a knight? How heavy is your armor? How did you get so tall? Where's your sword? Does it have gems in it? _

Sandor had just reached for his hilt when Alys dropped bowls of stew in front of all of them, followed by loaves of dark brown bread. The children ate greedily. They had the perpetual gleam of hunger in their eyes and hollows in their cheeks. It had been a long winter. 

Sansa sipped her ale and nibbled at some bread and stew, but she let Dickon have the rest of her bowl. She decided she would give Arthor's family all their remaining food, along with a generous share of their gold pieces. Sansa would rather go hungry herself than leave the children empty-bellied. 

They pitched fits and pouted when Alys announced bedtime. They gave watery-eyed goodbyes to Sansa, then shuffled into their shared bedroom. Thankfully, Harwin retired for the evening too, taking Notch and Mudge with him to their tents. It left Sansa with Brienne, Luke, Sandor, and Arthor.

"Two days more," Brienne sighed at Sansa's side, swirling her mug of ale. "That's all it should take. Seven willing, we won't run into any trouble. People have taken kindly to Bran's reign—he's a fair ruler for his young years. He's well-liked." 

Anticipation pricked Sansa's veins. She had been on the road for so many weeks that the idea of _ arriving, _of reaching a destination and staying put, seemed impossible. Too good to be true. But she would be with Bran. She would have her slippers, and gowns, and cakes. She would be a princess. 

"Will you stay in King's Landing?" Sansa queried. 

"Me?" Brienne shook her head. "No, no. I'll return to Lady Stoneheart as soon as you're settled." 

"To Jaime?" 

"Aye, to Jaime." 

"Do you miss him?" Sansa pressed. 

"I do," Brienne sighed. She drank deeply from her mug and said nothing more. 

"What about you, Clegane?" Luke charged. "Are you staying put in King's Landing?" 

All eyes went to Sandor. 

"No," he said, curt. "I'm going after my keep." 

Sansa knew he would answer so, and still her chest tightened. She didn't like to think of Sandor leaving her. 

"Hells, I wish I was lucky enough to have m'own keep," Luke groused. "I'll settle for being a lesser guard, I think. If the king will have me." 

The conversation waned to silence. Sandor sipped his ale; Luke and Brienne stared off into the distance. Arthor chewed sourleaf in the corner, his legs propped on Harrold's rickety stool. And Sansa wrung her hands in her lap, careful to avoid the unladylike act of picking at her nail beds, though she desperately wanted to unleash her nerves on them. 

She would be in a castle with Bran and Jeyne, but no Sandor. He would live out his life out west and leave Sansa to be gobbled up in court. 

It wasn't fair. 

It wasn't fair that he could be free, and alone, and happy without her. For all her nobility, Sansa was powerless. She couldn't force him to stay. 

"I've heard it's beautiful," Brienne offered the weary table. "Clegane's Keep." 

Sandor's brow furrowed.

"Jaime visited once, when he was a boy," she said, answering his incredulity. "The whole lot of them came. I'm sure you remember." 

"I remember," Sandor conceded. 

"He said he'd never seen such a well-kept little keep. Lots of pretty flowers and garden paths. And set in the mountains, a river curling around it all. Isolated, modest, but beautiful." 

"It's true," Sandor agreed. His face softened, but only for a moment. 

"Jaime told me something else, something that I'd never heard before," Brienne continued. "You had a sister. A simple girl, he said. Didn't live long." 

Sansa's heart skipped a beat. Her eyes flickered to Sandor, whose expression had fallen flat. Sansa wanted to come to his defense, but she couldn't get any words past her tongue. 

She had never heard his sister was simple, either. 

"Margaery," was all Sandor said. 

"Margaery," Brienne repeated. "Cersei was stuck with her when they visited—said the girl was four years and couldn't speak a word, couldn't even walk, she only cried. She cried, and cried, and cried. A nightmare for Cersei, of course." 

Sandor's jaw went rigid, but his eyes flashed wildly. He answered, "She could sing. She couldn't talk, but she could learn songs." 

"How'd she die, then?" Luke cut in. 

"Luke," Sansa scolded, before she could stop herself. 

"It's fine." Sandor said, reassuring Sansa with a mere glance. "She fell. She fell from a tree and broke her neck. There was nothing that could be done." 

"How's a girl who can't walk get into a tree?" Luke pressed. 

Sandor didn't answer him, because the answer was obvious. 

Gregor.

Sansa recalled what Sandor told her, a half moon ago. _ He killed them all, one way or another. _

Helplessly, Sansa bit her lip. She longed to reach for Sandor, to take his hand the way he liked, the way that soothed him when he shared such stories. But their touch was stolen, a secret, something that Sansa shouldn't want so desperately or so often. Something that shouldn't come to her as naturally as her own breath. 

She settled for digging her nails into her palms. 

"That's odd," Brienne said, casually, as if they discussed the weather. "That's how your mother died too, is it not? A fall?" 

Sandor's mug crashed down to the table with a clatter. He looked from Brienne to Sansa, and Sansa recognized the anguish that burned in his eyes. 

"I'm ready for bed," she yawned, coming to stand. Brienne gave her a blank stare. "_Now, _” Sansa urged. 

"Fine," the knight relented. She poured the rest of her ale in her mouth. "If you insist." 

Brienne stood, and the two of them shuffled around the table to the entry of the corridor. Sansa stole one last glimpse at Sandor, and it was clear he hadn't taken his eyes from her. They glinted in the firelight, and beneath his black hair, his scars shone too. Sansa smeared a rogue tear from her cheek, and she smiled. It was all she could think to do. 

Then they were down the dark, short corridor. Brienne pushed open a crudely assembled door. Inside was a cupboard stuffed with cookware and crocks, a lumpy straw mattress set on the rushes. 

"This is all they had," Brienne announced. 

"This will do just fine," Sansa returned. 

She lowered herself unsteadily onto her bed of straw. She sighed. 

"Are you well?" Brienne asked down to her. "Is there anything you need?" 

Sansa shook her head. Her jaw had begun to tremble so intensely she couldn't speak. Brienne hovered in the doorway. 

"He doesn't like to speak of them. His family." 

"No," Sansa whispered to the dusty shelves before her. "He loved them too much." 

Brienne grunted and pursed her lips. Whatever she thought of Sandor, she kept to herself. 

"I'll be right outside if you need anything," was all the knight said before shutting Sansa inside. 

Tears swelled in Sansa's eyes, but they didn't fall. She tugged off her boots, loosened the laces of her bodice, and bundled the tattered wool blankets tightly around her shoulders. _ Breathe, _ she commanded herself, _ breathe, _but the air was too damp to swallow. 

All too soon, Sansa would be at court, surrounded by family, friends, lords, ladies, knights, and princes. She would have everything she could ever hope for, and she would be safe. Yet her heart was heavy in her chest like a block of black ice, because she knew. She would be trapped. 

She would be lonely. 

She wouldn't have him. 

And worst of all, she knew he would be lonely too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 💕💕💕


End file.
